


Death at the Warrny

by Miss_Lilian



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, Cycling, F/M, bicycling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Lilian/pseuds/Miss_Lilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack gets the thighs out … in the line of duty, of course! This story is set in Melbourne in October 1929. Jack and Phryne are in the early stages of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is different … my very first fanfic. This was just a test to see if I could remember how to write. I drafted it back in August, never intending to post it, but I began to feel guilty for reading without contributing something.
> 
> I had hoped/expected to see this sort of story at series 3, episode 12. I didn't, so I was forced to write it myself. It takes place in October 1929, so unless Phryne turns that plane around soon, this story will be AU. 
> 
> Caveat: I allowed myself approximately 3.5 minutes for “research”. It may not have been comprehensive. 
> 
> I own nothing.

_Let me tell you what I think of bicycling. I think it has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance. I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride by on a wheel ... the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood._

– Susan B. Anthony, abolitionist and American suffragette, 1896

 

 

The men of the City South Police Station had just begun to search the crime scene, a desolate stretch of the Princes Highway, when a bright red Hispano-Suiza motorcar pulled up. Its driver, the incomparable Miss Phryne Fisher, alighted with a flourish.

“Spread out farther along the road, men,” Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson ordered. “It could be anywhere in this area.”

“Hello, Jack!” Miss Fisher called cheerily, as she strode into the center of activity.

“Good morning, Miss Fisher,” Jack greeted. “What brings you out this way?”

“I was just taking some air,” she said innocently.

“It's barely 8 degrees,” he retorted.

“Exactly! It's the perfect temperature to refresh ones complexion,” she said, tilting her head back to expose more of her creamy neck and running her fingers tantalizingly along her jawline to demonstrate. “And what takes you so far from the station, Jack?”

“There's been a murder, Miss Fisher,” he reported.

“Out here?” she asked.

“Precisely here,” he said.

“We're not exactly in the city center, Jack. Do you think the victim was killed elsewhere and then dumped here?” she asked.

“No, this is the scene of crime,” he said.

“How intriguing,” she replied.

Phryne stepped over to the roadside to view the remains. The victim, a man possibly in his early twenties clad in a jersey top and shorts, appeared to have been struck on the back of the head.

“The wounds have a cylindrical shape – a pipe perhaps?” she offered.

“Astute as ever, Miss Fisher, but I suspect that in this case we may be looking for a bicycle tire pump,” he replied.

“That's very specific, Jack,” she said. “Was the victim someone you knew?”

“No, there was no identification with the body,” Jack replied. He could easily have shared his observations with her, but Jack knew better than to spoil her fun. Phryne loved the thrill of solving mysteries almost as much as she loved bringing murderers to justice. Jack watched with admiration as Phryne puzzled out the situation.

Crouching down, Phryne focused again on the corpse. Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective, prided herself on gleaning every scrap of information that could be found at a crime scene, but clearly she was missing something here. She cast her eyes down the victim's body, taking in his casual attire and athletic build. Having spent years appreciating all variety of men, Phryne considered herself a connoisseur of the male physique. Although she was certain she had never met the man, there was something vaguely familiar about the victim that she couldn't quite place….

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “He's is a cyclist, Jack! His thighs are enormous, just like yours!” Standing and turning to face Jack, she fingered the lapels of his coat and amended softly, “Well, not quite as lovely as yours.”

Jack felt his face flush and silently prayed that no one heard Phryne's comment. The sudden outbreak of coughing among the men, however, suggested otherwise. Jack cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Uh, yes, Miss Fisher, the victim appears to have been a cyclist.”

 

“Found it!” shouted Senior Constable Hugh Collins from about 20 yards away. “I found it, sir! Over here!”

Jack rushed over to Collins' side and helped him pull a bicycle out from under a group of bushes. “Oh, no,” Jack said, as he examined the plain yellow, fixed-gear bicycle.

 

*

 

Phryne was already sitting in his office when Jack returned from the crime scene and wheeled the bicycle into the room. It was no easy task, as the bent wheels and crooked handlebars made the bicycle hop and skid across the floor. As predicted, a blood-stained bicycle tire pump had been found not far from the bicycle.

“Collins!” Jack called.

“Yes, sir?” Collins replied, appearing instantly in the doorway.

“Any luck with missing persons?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” he said.

Taking a seat at his desk, Jack scribbled some names onto a piece of paper and handed it to Collins. “I'd like you to make telephone inquiries to see if any of these men - William Everett, Adam Gardner, Reginald Cobb, or Timothy Drew - is currently in Melbourne.”

“Yes, sir. Uh, what if they are, sir?” Collins asked.

“Then I'll need to speak with them,” Jack said.

“Yes, sir,” Collins said and quickly disappeared.

“Are you going to tell me what's going on, Jack?” Phryne asked. “You looked like you saw a ghost when Hugh unearthed that bicycle. What do those four men have to do with the case?”

“It's just a theory,” Jack began, “and if I tell you, you will think you have finally succeeded in driving me out of my mind.” Phryne smirked, folded her arms across her chest, and waited for her inspector to continue. “I think this pushbike may be from the Tour de France,” he said.

“The Tour de France? The famous bicycle race in France?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. Last year the Tour de France provided all competing cyclists with very distinctive plain yellow, fixed-gear bicycles like this one,” he explained. “It's something to do with the race founder not wanting variable-gear bicycles in the race or manufacturers' names on the bikes.”

“How could a bicycle from the Tour de France turn up in Melbourne?” she asked.

“An Australasian team competed in the race for the first time last year,” he explained. “The four names I gave Collins are the cyclists who composed the team.”

“I remember now,” she said. “The Herald campaigned to send Everett to the Tour de France, and they added the other three cyclists to form a team.”

“I didn't know you followed cycling so closely, Phryne,” he said, a smile softening the sharp features of his face.

“It's a fledgling interest,” she replied coyly. “I also remember the parade through Melbourne when thousands of people lined the streets to welcome them home. If this pushbike is what you think it is, Jack, then our victim could be a national hero.”

“Exactly,” he said gravely.

 

Collins knocked on the open office door before entering. “Sir, those men you asked me to check on? Gardner and Everett are here in Melbourne, Cobb is in Koo Wee Rup, and Drew is at his home in New Zealand,” Collins reported, handing Jack the addresses for the cyclists.

“Who would you like to see first? Everett?” Phryne asked.

“Don't you have an appointment with the Fleuri sisters this afternoon?” Jack asked.

“I did, but I rescheduled it when you called this morning,” she replied. “You know I won't allow myself to be distracted during a murder investigation. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he said. “Before I make a fool of myself in front of a three-time Australian road cycling champion, I'd like to take this pushbike to an expert to make sure I'm right about it. You don't–”

“An excellent plan, Jack,” Phryne interrupted. “Shall we take your car or mine?” She could see that something was making Jack nervous, and it wasn't just the thought of her driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a big reason to put Jack Robinson on a bicycle in the line of duty, so I used the 1928 Australasian team for the Tour de France. There was such a team, composed of Sir Hubert Opperman, Ernie Bainbridge, Percy Osborn and Harry Watson. I based my character William Everett's cycling career loosely on that of Sir Hubert Opperman.
> 
> I may or may not have fudged history by a couple of years. According to my 3.5 minutes of "research", the "plain yellow bicycle" policy did not occur at the Tour de France until 1930. Whoops.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack loaded the bicycle into the back of the police motorcar and headed to Richmond. “This isn't a bicycle shop, it's a pub,” Phryne announced when the vehicle stopped. “I thought you said we were going to see an expert.”

“We are,” he countered. “The local cycling club keeps club rooms in the back, and the man in this pub knows more about cycling and the Tour de France than just about anyone in Melbourne.”

Jack retrieved the bicycle from the back of the motorcar and wheeled it behind Phryne through the doors of the pub. A tall, wiry man standing behind the bar smiled broadly when he saw the inspector approach. “It's a bit early for you, isn't it Jack?” he called. Jack matched his smile and walked around the bar to greet the man with a hug and a slap on the back.

“It is,” Jack said. “But it's always good to see you, Sean.”

Phryne stood back watching the men interact. She had never met any of Jack's friends. She knew he had them, of course, but her life with Jack had always revolved around their work together and her family of friends. She had never seen Jack Robinson display such open affection. His demeanor changed in the other man's presence, his whole body relaxed. He smiled easily and laughed heartily. Phryne could see that this man was someone very dear to Jack.

“My apologies, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, regaining his manners and walking back around the bar toward Phryne. “Miss Fisher, may I present Sean Murphy. Sean, this is the Honorable Phryne Fisher.”

Sean had thick black hair, eyes just as dark, and a pale complexion. He was tall and very fit, like Jack. While Jack's face was inscrutable, Sean's betrayed his every thought and emotion – his eyes danced with life. Where Jack was quiet, Sean filled the room with his booming voice, easy manner, and infectious laugh.

“I'm delighted to meet you,” Phryne said warmly.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Fisher. Please call me Sean,” he smiled. “I've heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” she asked, looking quizzically at Jack whose expression admitted nothing.

Turning back to Sean, Phryne spied a beautiful blue kelpie, as still as a statue, silently watching her from his spot on the floor at the end of the bar. “Well, hello there,” Phryne greeted. “What's your name?”

“Fang. His name is Fang,” Sean said.

“Fang, that's a lovely name. Are you a fan of Jack London's stories, Sean? I'm glad to hear that Fang has a proper dog name,” she said. “If Jack had a dog, I fear the poor mutt would be forced to answer to something Shakespearean like 'Othello' or 'Coriolanus.'” Phryne expected to see Jack roll his eyes at her when she looked up from the dog, but instead she saw two fully grown men looking very much like a couple of 10-year-old boys with a secret. “All right, out with it,” she ordered. “Who is Fang in Shakespeare?”

“The constable in Henry IV, part 2,” Jack said sheepishly.

“Of course he's a policeman,” Phryne laughed.

“We couldn't very well call him Dogberry or Elbow, now could we?” Jack defended.

“You are hopeless, Jack Robinson,” Phryne said, smiling at the adorably, surprisingly silly man. She looked at Jack with such love that he felt powerless to turn away.

After a long moment, Sean cleared his throat loudly. “Uh, yes, we'd like your help with a murder inquiry, Sean,” Jack said, reluctantly prying his gaze away from Phryne. Jack told Sean about the body that had been found that morning. He showed his friend a photo of the victim, but Sean didn't recognize him. Then Jack relayed his theory about the bicycle.

“Put it up on the bar where I can have a proper look at it,” Sean said. Jack complied and watched him carefully scrutinize the bicycle.

Sean Murphy did indeed know everything there was to know about cycling and the Tour de France. He began racing when he was 16 years old, and was already a cycling champion by the time the war intervened. Sean had hoped to become a professional cyclist and compete in the Tour de France after the war, but he came back a changed man.

Sean pointed to several places on the bicycle as he explained why he concurred with Jack that it was one of the new Tour de France pushbikes they had seen in photographs and read about in sporting journals like _L'Auto_ and _The Australian Cyclist_. “If your victim was attacked while riding this bicycle, then logic dictates that your killer must be at least as fast as your victim,” Sean said. “But there are only a few people in the country fast enough to compete in the Tour de France. Where was the body found?”

“The Princes Highway, west of the city,” Jack replied. The two men exchanged a knowing look.

“The Warrny is only a few weeks away,” Sean said.

“What is the Warrny?” Phryne asked.

“The Warrnambool to Melbourne road race is one of the longest, one-day cycling races in the world, where riders race all the way from Warrnambool to Melbourne,” Sean said. “The winner of the Blue Riband for the fastest time earns the title, 'Long Distance Road Champion of Australia.'”

“Do you believe our victim was training for the Warrny when he was killed?” she asked.

“Yes,” the men said in unison.

Phryne liked Sean Murphy. She wanted to get to know him better and learn more about the Jack Robinson that Sean knew. Sensing that Jack was about to make a hasty exit now that they had finished their business, Phryne declared, “I'm famished!” Sitting down on a stool at the bar, she continued, “I will not take one more step, Jack Robinson, until you allow me to eat something. You called me out to a crime scene very early this morning, so I didn't have a proper breakfast, and now it's past lunchtime.”

Jack was ashamed of himself for not being more attentive to Phryne, especially since she and her staff were always taking care of him. Jack and Phryne had agreed that their relationship would be “strictly business” in public when they worked on cases together, but he couldn't help feeling guilty for failing to properly look after the woman he adored. “I apologize, Miss Fisher. I should have realized,” he said contritely.

“It's quite all right, darling,” she said softly, stroking his arm and encouraging him to take the seat next to her. Jack lifted the pushbike off the bar and sat down next to Phryne.

“You must join us, Sean,” she insisted while perusing the menu. “Oh look, Jack! Ham, cheese and mustard pickle!”

Sean signaled to a barmaid who quietly closed that room of the pub. Phryne and the two friends enjoyed a lively lunch together. Jack slowly relaxed and allowed Sean to share stories of their youth, which were met consistently with peals of laughter from Phryne and blushes from Jack. As Jack and Phryne stood to leave, Sean came out from behind the bar to escort them out the door. Phryne saw that Sean supported himself with a crutch. He was missing a leg.

 

“I like Sean,” Phryne said, as Jack climbed into the motorcar. “I really like him.” Jack leaned over and kissed her in a manner wholly inappropriate for an officer of the law sitting in a police vehicle.

They drove in companionable silence for a while until Phryne asked why Jack had been so nervous about her meeting Sean. “Sean has been my best friend since we were kids. We've been through everything together, even war,” he said. “You and Sean are two of the people who mean the most to me in the world. I don't know what I would do if you didn't like each other.” Phryne nodded in understanding.

“What happened to him, Jack?” she asked. “Was it the war?”

Jack pulled the motorcar over to the side of the road. He hadn't thought about that in quite some time. He had deliberately, ferociously avoided recalling that event. “He lost his leg saving my life,” Jack said, “during the war. A shell exploded nearby and I became confused. I couldn't hear anything. I stood up and shook my head trying to understand what was happening. Sean was yelling at me to get down, but I couldn't hear him. He ran toward me and pushed me down onto the ground, and that's when the next explosion caught him.” Jack looked at her, struggling to keep the tears from his eyes. “His life was ruined because he saved mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you love Fang?! Dogberry and Elbow are two of Shakespeare's less competent policemen.
> 
> Why did the barmaid close the room? Because according to my 3.5 minutes of "research", women were not allowed in pubs, only in selected areas. Also, pubs back then were required to provide "accommodation" in order to obtain their licenses, so pubs were actually hotels and they typically had more than one "bar" area.


	3. Chapter 3

William Everett was away from home when the two detectives arrived at his residence late in the day. They were relieved to hear that his wife, Louise, had seen him that morning. Mr. Everett was not their victim. They left word that they needed to speak with him urgently and continued on to Mr. Gardner's house.

Adam Gardner was an easy-going, affable man who, by Phryne's estimation, was surprisingly close to Jack's age. He was broad and very muscular, with a round face and a thatch of bright blond hair atop his head. Mr. Gardner confirmed that the bicycle found at the crime scene was one of the French bikes they had used in the Tour de France the previous year. He reported that only Mr. Everett brought a bicycle home; Tour de France Founder Henri Desgrange had given it to him as a memento of the race. Mr. Gardner didn't recognize the victim in the photograph and said he had no idea who would be riding Mr. Everett's pushbike.

“Are you aware of any disagreements between Mr. Everett and other cyclists?” Jack asked.

“No. Billy Everett is as nice a man as you will ever meet, and he is a phenomenal cyclist,” Mr. Gardner replied. “I cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm him.”

“How do you get along with him?” Phryne asked.

“We're friends,” Mr. Gardner said.

“Riding in the Tour de France last year must have been very exciting for both you and Mr. Everett,” Phryne said.

“Yes, it was,” Mr. Gardner said, smiling brightly. “It was an honor to compete in the race. We were a four-man team competing against teams of 10 men, but we did the best we could.”

“You were more than 10 years older than your teammates,” Phryne said. “Did that cause any friction on the team? Did Mr. Everett try to replace you with someone younger?”

Mr. Gardner guffawed. “Let me show you something,” he said, as he retrieved an old newspaper article from his desk drawer. Handing the paper to Phryne, he said, “I was selected to ride in the Tour de France partly because of the tribute Mr. Everett paid me in this article about the 1927 Dunlop Grand Prix cycling race. Mr. Everett wasn't worried about my age, _I_ was, but Billy convinced me to go.”

“He praised Mr. Cobb and Mr. Drew, too,” Phryne affirmed, as she scanned the article.

“Yes, he did, and out of all the cyclists in Australia and New Zealand, we were the three who were chosen to accompany him to France,” Gardner said.

“Were there any bad feelings among the team members after the Tour de France?” Phryne asked.

“Of course not,” Gardner replied. “We had expected more teammates to join us in Europe, but when that didn't happen, we knew it would be difficult.”

“Have you competed in the Warrnambool to Melbourne road race before?” Phryne asked.

“Yes, several times,” he said.

“Do you plan to ride the Warrny this year?” Jack inquired.

“Yes,” he acknowledged.

“Are you and Mr. Everett training for the Warrny together?” Jack asked.

“No, we have different training routines,” Mr. Gardner said.

“Now that you mention the Warrny, there was an incident a few years ago when Billy was disqualified for interfering with another cyclist,” Mr. Gardner offered.

“Can you remember what happened?” Jack asked. “Do you know the other cyclist's name?”

“Let me see, the other rider was ... Willoughby, yes, that's it, Jimmy Willoughby,” Mr. Gardner recalled. “As they approached the finish line, Billy and Jimmy collided, but both men managed to keep their balance. Billy came in second place and won the Blue Riband for the fastest time. Jimmy Willoughby came in third place. Billy was disqualified for interfering with Jimmy, but he went before the Appeal Board of the League of Victorian Wheelmen and was exonerated. The Appeal Board found there was no unsportsmanlike conduct or deliberate interference. They did, however, fine Billy 15 pounds for negligence.”

“Do you know where Mr. Willoughby is now?” Jack asked.

“No, I haven't seen him since that day. I don't think he has raced since then,” Mr. Gardner said. “If you ask me, the League was over-zealous in disqualifying Billy. I think they were trying to guard the Warrny against the violence of races like the Austral.”

 

*

 

Phryne and Jack met Dr. Elizabeth “Mac” MacMillan at the morgue early the next morning for the post mortem report.

“Good morning, detectives,” Mac greeted. “Tell me, Inspector, is it true that your thighs are something akin to a natural wonder? Every third person in the building has told me so today.”

Jack gaped while Phryne looked innocently around the room. “No, it is not true, Dr. MacMillan,” Jack said, recovering himself, “but thank you for asking. You know how easily rumors can start.” Jack and Mac looked at Phryne while she continued admiring the tiling on the walls.

“Anything interesting in the post mortem, Mac?” Phryne asked nonchalantly.

“As expected, the cause of death is trauma to the back of the head from blows made by our murder weapon, the bicycle tire pump,” the coroner began.

“Time of death?” Jack asked.

“Taking into account the victim's strenuous exercise prior to death and the cold weather the night before last, I would estimate that your cyclist died between seven and eleven p.m., the day before yesterday,” Mac replied.

“There are multiple injuries to the body which occurred perimortem, namely a broken ulna, two broken ribs, and various bruises and lacerations, some of which are severe,” Mac proceeded. “They appear to be the result of the victim coming off his bicycle while traveling at a high rate of speed.”

“Ignoring the fatal head injuries for the moment, is it possible that the other injuries were caused by something aside from the victim falling off the bike?” Phryne asked.

“It's possible, but unlikely,” Mac said.

“Could he have been hit by a car?” Phryne continued.

“I think there would have been broken bones over more of the body if he had been hit by a car.” Mac said. “And wouldn't the bicycle have been more heavily damaged if he had been hit by a car?”

“Is there anything to indicate that he was pushed or kicked off the bike before being struck in the head?” Jack asked.

“The bruising is too vague, Inspector,” Mac said. “The bruising is from contact, but I cannot say if it was with anything other than the ground. I don't have a bootprint on the victim's back. Out of curiosity, why would it matter if he was pushed off the bike before he was beaten?”

“We believe the victim was a very fast cyclist who would have been difficult to catch, much less hit on the head,” he said. “We also believe the bicycle tire pump may have belonged to the victim, in which case the killer would not have had access to it until after the victim was off the bike.”

“We believe the bicycle tire pump belonged to the victim?” Phryne asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “it would not have made sense for the victim to go for a long bike ride without his tool pouch, bicycle tire repair kit with patches, and bicycle tire pump. The pouch and kit were on the pushbike, but the tire pump was not.”

“But Jack, we don't know if the victim was going for a long ride,” Phryne said.

“With those legs? He was going for a long ride,” he said.

“Actually, judging by the amount of dried perspiration found on the victim's skin and clothes, I would say that the victim had already been on a long ride,” Mac advised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ernie Bainbridge, on whom Adam Gardner is very, very loosely based, was actually much older than his Tour de France teammates. He was injured (shot in the arm) while serving in World War I. The article Gardner shows Phryne did exist. It was, "How I Won the Dunlop Grand Prix," by Hubert Opperman, in which he praised a few of his competitors who became his Tour de France teammates. The Dunlop Grand Prix was a staged race like the Tour de France. It was run in 1927 instead of the Warrny. (The Warrny was one of the stages of the Dunlop Grand Prix.) The article gave excellent detail about Opperman's training routine, which was insanely hard. Opperman did collide with a cyclist in the 1926 Warrny, was disqualified, appealed, and was exonerated but fined for negligence.
> 
> About the Austral: The Austral was track cycling, but, according to my 3.5 minutes of "research", the early years were very rough, a combination of cycling and, well, roller derby. I think this poem serves to illustrate:
> 
> ‘To the 1897 Austral’
> 
> After the Austral’s over,  
> After the track is clear –  
> Straighten my nose and shoulders,  
> Help them to find my ear. 
> 
> Source: "Wheeling Matilda: The Story of Australian Cycling" by Jim Fitzpatrick


	4. Chapter 4

“Come on, Jack, you cannot seriously blame me for people talking about your legs,” Phryne said, as she and Jack entered City South Police Station. “All I did was make a perfectly accurate, perfectly innocent observation at a crime scene. Besides, you don't give people enough to gossip about. You are far too upstanding for your own good.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Fisher,” Jack huffed, guiding the plain yellow bicycle once again into his office. “They gossip about me constantly, as you well know.”

“As much as I adore the idea of you begging me, Jack, there is no need to _beg my pardon_ because you know very well that I'm right,” she said.

“Uh, sir?” Collins bravely interrupted the partners' badinage.

“Hello, Hugh!” Phryne greeted. “How is your lovely bride today?”

“Very well, thank you, Miss,” he replied.

“Yes, Collins?” Jack asked.

“Mr. Everett is waiting for you, sir. I put him in an interview room.” Collins replied.

Jack was flabbergasted. William Everett, three-time national road cycling champion, was waiting to see him? As if Mr. Everett had nothing better to do with his time mere weeks away from the Warrny? Jack quickly thanked Mr. Everett for coming down to the station and apologized for keeping him waiting. “Fresh tea for Mr. Everett, Collins,” Jack called over his shoulder, as he brought the cyclist to his office.

William Everett walked with the easy gait of an athlete, his well-muscled body concealed beneath a stylish three-piece suit. The cycling champion was a polite, unassuming young man. He was tall with dark brown curly hair, brown eyes and a ready smile.

Mr. Everett saw his pushbike as he entered the room. “Why is my bicycle here? What happened to it?” he asked. “Is that why you asked to speak with me?”

“Yes, Mr. Everett,” he said. “Do you know who was riding your pushbike the day before yesterday?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Tom Woods, my cousin's friend from Adelaide. He is training with me for the Warrnambool race. Has there been some sort of trouble? Did someone think Tom had stolen the bike? Because I can assure you that Tom would never do any such thing. He has my permission to ride that bicycle wherever and whenever he pleases.”

“Have you seen Tom since the day before yesterday?” Jack asked.

“Well, no, I haven't,” he said. “Our training routine is rigorous but somewhat casual. We meet at 7:00 each morning and ride together. If one of us doesn't make it, the other goes on without him. I had a slight problem with my leg the day before yesterday, so I visited my doctor and took the day off from riding. Tom wasn't at our usual meeting place yesterday, so I waited for half an hour and then rode alone. I didn't meet Tom today because you left word with my Louise that you wanted to speak with me.”

Jack notified Mr. Everett of the body that had been found with his bicycle, and showed him a photograph of the victim. The 25-year-old Everett was visibly shaken. He said that Tom wasn't from Melbourne and didn't have any family in town. Jack asked if he could think of any reason why someone would kill Mr. Woods.

“Why would anyone kill Tom?” Mr. Everett asked. “He's a great guy. He only came to Melbourne a few weeks ago to ride the Warrny with me.”

“Did anyone know that Mr. Woods was here with you or that he was riding your pushbike?” Jack asked.

“No, not apart from his family in Adelaide,” Mr. Everett said.

Jack told Mr. Everett where Tom's body had been found and asked him if it was along their usual training route. “Yes, the Princes Highway is the course for the Warrnambool race, and Tom and I have been riding the race route in our training,” he said.

“Mr. Everett, since Tom was killed while riding your pushbike, I think we have to consider the possibility that Tom may not have been the murderer's intended victim,” Phryne suggested, as delicately as she could. “Can you think of anyone at all who may wish to harm you?”

“Me?” he asked skeptically. “I'm just a guy on a bike. I don't have any enemies.”

“Has anyone threatened you recently?” Jack asked. “Have you had any quarrels with anyone lately?”

“No,” he said. “No one.”

“Has anything unusual happened recently, anything at all?” Phryne pressed.

“No, nothing,” he said.

Jack told him that he would like to assign a policeman to protect him while they search for the killer. Mr. Everett agreed, but insisted he had to continue training for the Warrny. Jack said that the pushbike was police evidence for now, and asked if he would be able to continue his training without it. “I never use the yellow bike,” he said. “It was a lovely gift, but I ride bikes custom made for me by Malvern Star Cycles.”

 

*

 

Jack contacted the police force in Adelaide to arrange for Tom Woods' parents to be informed of their son's death. With the time of death established, Jack asked Collins to chase down the alibis of Mr. Gardner and Mr. Everett, while he followed up on the doctor's visit Mr. Everett mentioned as his reason for not riding with Mr. Woods on the day he was killed. Jack then alerted police stations between Melbourne and Warrnambool about Tom Woods' murder. Now that he knew the victim was indeed a cyclist who was killed while training for the Warrny, he wanted to inform the other stations of the possible connection to the race. Jack also inquired about other murders between the two cities, and advised his counterparts that the victim was not immediately identifiable as a cyclist because the murderer had hidden the bicycle under bushes.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, that was discouraging,” Phryne said, plopping down into her chair in Jack's office and resting her feet on his desk.

“What was?” Jack asked, as he took his seat behind the desk.

“Spending all day interviewing William Everett's friends, neighbors and family members,” she frowned. “They all love him!”

Jack chuckled. “Only you would be disheartened at learning that a man is admired and cherished, Phryne,” he teased.

“You know what I mean, Jack,” she said. “The worst part is I think they were all telling the truth. We've spent hours interviewing dozens of people, and there's not a suspect among them.”

 

“Sir? Mrs. Louise Everett is  here to see you,” Collins called from the doorway.

“Thank you, Collins,” Jack said.

Collins escorted the tall, elegant young woman with auburn hair and emerald green eyes into the office.

“My William said you might want to speak with me about poor Tom, so I came as soon as I could,” Mrs. Everett began. “I want to do everything I can to help you catch whoever murdered that nice young man.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Everett, that's very kind of you,” Jack said, “Is Mr. Everett with you?”

“No. My William is riding his bicycle, so he won't return for several hours,” she said. “Your Sergeant Beasley is with him in the motorcar.”

After Mrs. Everett was settled with a fresh cup of tea, the detectives began questioning her. “What can you tell us about Tom Woods?” Phryne asked.

“Not very much, I'm afraid,” she said. “He is from Adelaide, and he is a friend of my William's cousin, Harry Everett. Tom wanted to become a professional cyclist and came to Melbourne three weeks ago to train for the Warrnambool race with my William. He was a very pleasant young man, and he seemed to idolize my William.”

“What did he do in Adelaide?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “He was a quiet young man, and he never spoke about Adelaide.”

“What about here in Melbourne? Did he have any friends or enemies?” Phryne asked.

“I don't believe so,” she said. “I don't think he knew anyone aside from my William and me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Everett, I appreciate your coming down to the station,” Jack said. He kept any sign of disappointment from his face as he stood to escort her out of the office.

“You're very welcome, Inspector,” she said, rising from her seat. “I hope you catch the terrible person who did this. Have you notified the young lady Tom was stepping out with? The poor dear must be heartbroken.”

“Tom was seeing someone?” Phryne asked.

“Yes. Ruth,” she said. “He was quite smitten, even though her family didn't approve.”

“Her family objected to him?” Jack asked. “What is Ruth's last name?”

“Yes, I understand that her older brothers were especially opposed. Tom didn't know what to do about it,” she said. “Nelson, Ruth Nelson. She works in one of the shops along Tom's cycling route.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Everett, you've been very helpful,” Jack said, as he accompanied her out the door.

 

*

 

It didn't take long for Phryne and Jack to find the sweets shop where Ruth Nelson worked. Miss Nelson, a lovely 19-year-old woman with light brown hair, slight build, and delicate features, was devastated at the news of Mr. Woods' death. She revealed that she and Tom had fallen in love almost instantly, and planned to marry once Tom established himself as a cyclist. She admitted that her brothers had voiced strong opposition to her friendship with Mr. Woods, but she assured the detectives most emphatically that she would not have been dissuaded.

“My brothers didn't understand,” Ruth protested. “Tom and I loved each other.”

“Families are not always sympathetic when it comes to love,” Phryne soothed.

“George and Cyril thought Tom was irresponsible because he spent so much time riding his pushbike,” she said.

“Did your brothers ever threaten Tom?” Jack asked.

“Oh, that was just talk. You know how men like to bluster,” she said, looking back and forth between the detectives.

“What did they say exactly?” Phryne asked.

“They said that if Tom didn't leave me alone, they would make sure he never rode a bicycle again,” she replied.

“Do you know if Mr. Woods had trouble with anyone else? Did he receive any other threats?” Jack asked.

“I don't think so, but Tom didn't like to burden people,” she said. “If he had a problem, he kept it to himself and solved it on his own.”

 

*

 

Collins collected Ruth's brothers, George and Cyril Nelson, at the factory where they worked, and brought them to the station for interviews. They seemed surprised to learn of Tom Woods' passing, though they did not appear to be saddened by it. They admitted that there had been some animosity toward Mr. Woods. They attributed their antipathy to Mr. Woods' “obsession” with cycling. “Racing pushbikes is fine when you're a child, but it's not an activity for a grown man,” George said. Phryne saw Jack set his jaw at George's statement.

“He was a nice enough man, but there is no way we would have let him destroy our sister's life,” Cyril added.

“Are you sure there wasn't some other reason that you disliked Tom? Did Tom hurt Ruth? Had he committed some egregious offense? Had he stolen something? Had he cheated or assaulted you or your brother?” Phryne asked.

“No,” George said.

“So your only objection was his cycling?” Phryne asked, genuinely trying to understand them.

“Yes,” Cyril said.

“We have a witness who says you issued threats against Mr. Woods,” Jack said. “Did you follow through on your threats to ensure that Mr. Woods never rode a bicycle again?”

“What? No! That was just talk,” George said.

“Just talk?” Jack asked. “A man you threatened is dead! Do you expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with it?” Jack glared at the men. He could understand feeling protective of the people you love, but he could not abide threatening a man over his sport.

“We warned him off Ruth is all,” Cyril replied. “It was fine for him to waste his life chasing a childhood fantasy, but he had no business involving my sister.”

“Fantasy?” Jack asked, exasperated. “Tom Woods came to Melbourne to train with three-time Australian road cycling champion, Tour de France rider, and national hero William Everett. Do you have any idea how fast Mr. Woods had to be in order become a training partner to a national champion? Do you think an endurance champion like Mr. Everett trains with just anybody? Mr. Woods rode every day with the fastest cyclist in all of Australia. Can you really not comprehend how truly exceptional Mr. Woods was?”

 

*

 

“What do you think, Jack, did the killer hit his mark?” Phryne asked. “Was he after Tom Woods or was he aiming for Billy Everett?” The detectives settled on the chaise lounge in the parlor for their familiar nightcap.

“I don't know,” he began. “I don't see a motive for killing either of them. He could have been after Mr. Woods, but I cannot ignore the possibility that he was after Mr. Everett. They look enough alike to be mistaken for each other. That yellow bicycle, unique in all Australia, has been described and photographed in news coverage and sporting journals celebrating Billy Everett for the past year. What are your thoughts?”

“I can't find a motive either,” she replied, “As far as we know, everyone loves William Everett, and no one knew Tom Woods.”

“Not everyone is a fan of Mr. Everett,” he said. “James Willoughby seems to have cause for complaint.”

“That's true,” she replied.

“And what about the Nelson brothers?” he asked.

“I don't know, darling. There has to be more to that story. It seems too 'Romeo and Juliet' to me,” she said.

“Perhaps, but Shakespeare is revered for his ability to portray human nature,” he reminded her.

“This case has too many questions,” she said.

“I agree. Not the least of which is 'how was he murdered?'” he said. “How did someone unseat Tom Woods from his bicycle without causing more broken bones and without destroying the bicycle? Aside from the bent wheels and turned handlebars, the pushbike is intact. Excluding the fatal head wounds, Mr. Woods' injuries and the damage to his bicycle seem more consistent with a fall than an attack.”

“A cyclist could have collided with him, like William Everett was accused of doing to James Willoughby,” she suggested. “Remember what Sean said: the killer had to be faster than the victim, and there are only a few people in the country that fast.”

“I know that what Sean said makes sense, but I find it difficult to believe that one of the country's elite sportsmen could be our murderer,” he said.

“Cyclists are just people, darling, albeit with nicer legs,” she said, running her hand up his thigh. “And you know better than anyone that people are capable of murder.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

By now, Chief Commissioner Calder had read Jack's preliminary report on the body found along the Princes Highway, particularly the parts that mentioned William Everett's bicycle and the Warrnambool to Melbourne cycling road race. He summoned Jack to his office. The commissioner told Jack that the Warrnambool to Melbourne road race was as much a point of pride for the citizens of Melbourne as it was for the citizens of Warrnambool. He reminded Jack that cyclists have raced the Warrny since before the Tour de France existed.

“More than 300 riders are expected to compete in the Warrny this year. We cannot have someone out there killing cyclists!” he shouted. “William Everett is a national hero, Robinson. If anything happens to him on your watch, you can forget about any hope you may have of a career!”

It was hardly the first threat a superior had uttered against his career, but Jack had to admit that it may have been the most effective. Jack assured the commissioner that he understood the potential threat to Mr. Everett, and reported that he had assigned Sergeant Beasley to watch over him.

“That's a good start, Robinson, but it's not enough,” Chief Commissioner Calder said. “I don't want Mr. Everett riding his bicycle alone. He needs to train, so you'll have to ride with him.”

“Ride with him, sir?” he asked. “Beasley is following him in the motorcar.”

“Ride with him on your bicycle,” the commissioner said.

“Me, sir?” he asked. “I'm a policeman, not a cyclist, sir. I wouldn't be able to stay close enough to Mr. Everett to protect him, sir. Surely one of the younger men would be a better choice.”

“Don't play coy with me, Robinson,” Chief Commissioner Calder said. “You are a policeman who rides his pushbike all over the city of Melbourne. In fact, if you didn't, we wouldn't know that the victim was a cyclist. This is an undercover assignment, Robinson. I cannot put someone undercover as a cyclist if he doesn't have the thighs to back it up. If the rumors that have been floating around Russell Street all day are anything to go by, you have the necessary equipment for the assignment.”

Jack sighed. “How will I investigate the murder if I'm riding a pushbike with Mr. Everett, sir?” he asked.

“I'm confident you will manage, Robinson,” the commissioner replied.

“But I'm 15 years older than he is, sir!” he cried.

“Nevertheless, starting tomorrow, I am assigning you to be Mr. Everett's new training partner, up to and including the Warrnambool race,” the commissioner said. “And I want you to ride that yellow bicycle. Yes, I know it's evidence, but with you riding it, technically the pushbike remains in police custody. If the killer knows it's Everett's pushbike, then maybe he'll go after you instead of Mr. Everett.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. Jack suddenly felt like he was 100 years old.

 

*

 

“You must be joking!” Phryne exclaimed, her voice more high-pitched than she had expected. “You could get hurt!”

Jack walked over and closed his office door before responding. He really didn't want his men to hear this conversation. “I'm a policeman,” he said, “and this isn't my first undercover assignment.”

“Of course it isn't, Jack, but shouldn't one of the younger men take the assignment?” she asked, perching atop Jack's desk. “It's 165 miles to Warrnambool!”

“Yes. Yes it is,” he said, feeling even worse about this assignment than before she arrived. “The commissioner has ordered me to do this, Phryne,” he said. “I cannot refuse, nor would I want to.” Of all the ways Jack had imagined he could die in the line of duty, collapsing during an impossibly long, notoriously grueling bicycle race had never even entered his mind.

“Why can't we work this case in our usual way?” she asked.

“By 'usual', do you mean where you place yourself in mortal danger while I stand by and try to remember how to breathe?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” she rejoined. “It worked quite well, I thought.”

“We cannot work in our usual manner because the murderer may have intended to kill Mr. Everett rather than Mr. Woods,” he explained, “so we have to both solve the case and protect Mr. Everett.”

“I don't like this, Jack,” she said. “Even if you're protected during training, you will be completely exposed during the race.”

“I'm more worried about how I'm going to guard the race leader from my position in last place,” he replied.

Jack felt confident he could protect Mr. Everett while he trained for the race, but he could see no good way to guard him during the race itself. If the killer was indeed another cyclist, Mr. Everett would be surrounded by more than 300 suspects. Moreover, the Warrny was a handicap race, employing a staggered start, so only the fastest riders would start in the first group with Mr. Everett. Jack would likely start the race in the last group, two hours after the first group departed, making it impossible for him to catch the riders in the first group. Jack needed to solve this case before the race began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note about the Warrny start times: I mentioned that the Warrny employed staggered starts, but I didn't mention the times. In the early days of the race, the first group started at 3:00 a.m., the second group began the race at 4:00 a.m., and the third (final) group left at 5:00 a.m. Talk about your early mornings! Ugh!


	7. Chapter 7

“Where are you going, Jack?” Phryne whispered, forcing her eyes open. “It's still dark outside.”

“I'm sorry, Phryne, I didn't mean to wake you,” he said. “I have to go to my house to get my cycling gear and meet Mr. Everett by 7:00,” he said.

“You haven't even eaten breakfast,” she said, as she sat up to kiss him goodbye. “Why don't you bring your cycling gear here tonight so you can sleep later tomorrow.”

“Phryne, if today's ride is as punishing as I expect it to be, I won't be good company tonight,” he said.

“Nonsense, Jack! Since when do we see each other only when we are at our best?” she asked. “Please come here tonight. I'll have a bath waiting for you, and I'll ask Mr. Butler to make something especially delicious for dinner.”

“You make it very hard to refuse,” he said.

“That's the whole idea, darling,” she replied.

He kissed her goodbye, closed the bedroom door, and crept downstairs where he found Mr. Butler in the kitchen already dressed for the day. Mr. Butler made Jack an enormous breakfast, and sent him out the door with a thermos full of coffee and a basket with sliced fruit and freshly baked scones. Mr. Butler liked Jack Robinson. He especially liked that the inspector was madly in love with Miss Fisher.

 

*

 

Jack met Mr. Everett at 7:00. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Everett, but the commissioner has asked me to ride along with you,” Jack said. “I will use the yellow pushbike and act as a decoy. Sergeant Beasley will follow directly behind you in the police motorcar, as usual. Ride your normal route at your normal pace, and I will do my best to keep you in sight.”

“Thank you, Inspector Robinson, for doing all this to protect me and catch Tom's killer,” Mr. Everett said. “The commissioner called me yesterday and explained the plan to me. He said you are the best detective on the Victoria Police Force, but he couldn't vouch for your legs.” He laughed.

“As this is bound to be a humiliating day for me, Mr. Everett, do you suppose you could call me 'Jack?'” he asked.

“Of course, and call me 'Billy.' No one calls me 'William' except my mother and my wife,” he said.

They were about to leave when Beasley received a telephone call. Jack showed Billy the basket of food he brought, and offered him some scones while they waited for Beasley. “I like your Miss Fisher, Jack,” Billy said. “My Louise and I have seen her at charity do's and read about her in the newspaper. We are very impressed by her.”

“She is an extraordinary woman,” Jack agreed. “I'll relay your compliments. I know she will be pleased to hear them, although she is not _my_ Miss Fisher. She is her own person.”

Billy laughed. “Of course she is, Jack,” he said. “My Louise is her own person, too. I didn't call her 'your Miss Fisher' to demean her or suggest ownership. I was only acknowledging that you and Miss Fisher are stepping out together. After all, it's 7:00 in the morning, Jack, and you are sharing with me a basket of fresh-baked food from Miss Fisher's house. At the very least I think it's fair to say that her person is fond of your person. Yes?”

Jack blushed fluorescent when he realized what he had inadvertently revealed to Billy. “I suppose you're right,” he replied, trying to hide his embarrassment.

When Beasley returned, Jack asked about the phone call. “It was nothing, sir. The men at the station just wanted to set the odds for the betting,” Beasley said.

“What betting?” Jack asked through clenched teeth, barely containing his ire.

“On what time you will come off the bike, sir,” Beasley said. “Even money is on nine a.m.” Jack rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Beasley discreetly handed him a note containing a telephone message from Collins. It read: “Body found near Warrnambool. Unidentified cyclist. Commissioner said to stay close to Everett and keep your eyes open.” Jack didn't appreciate the jabs at his lack of endurance, mainly because he feared they would prove true, but he was pleased with the finesse Beasley showed in not blurting out Collins' message in front of a target who was already on edge. Jack made a mental note to commend Beasley. Jack took Billy aside and gently told him what the telephone call had really communicated. At first Billy was shocked, but he rallied quickly and insisted they continue with their training as planned. They would ride on the Princes Highway, but only going as far as Geelong before returning to Melbourne.

 

*

 

“Sean?” she called. The pub seemed eerily quiet until two burly men pushed passed Phryne in a whirl of motion, knocking her to the ground. “Oi!” she yelled after them, as they hurried out the doors. Sean emerged from one of the back rooms and rushed to help Phryne to her feet. “Are you all right, Miss Fisher?” he asked.

“I'm fine, Sean,” she replied. “How about you?”

“I'm fine,” he said, smoothing back his hair and straightening his clothes.

“Are you sure you're not hurt? I can call a doctor.” she persisted.

“I'm sure,” he said.

Phryne had a bad feeling about the two thugs and their plans for Sean, had she not interrupted.

“Who were those men and what did they want?" she demanded. "And where is Fang?”

“They were just a couple of ruffians. It's nothing,” he said. “Fang is at home with Mary and the kids until the afternoon.”

“Perhaps Fang could accompany you in the mornings for a little while,” she suggested. “What do you think?”

“Perhaps,” he said, stubbornly refusing to admit there was a problem.

“Do you keep a gun or anything for protection here?” she continued.

“I haven't touched a gun since the war,” he insisted. “I keep a cricket bat behind the bar, but the hooligans caught me in the back rooms.”

“You know I'm a detective,” she suggested.

Sean laughed. “So I've heard,” he replied.

“Will you allow me to help you?” she asked.

“Really, Miss Fisher, I'm fine,” he said. “I have no need of your assistance, but I assure you I would not hesitate to hire you if I did.”

“I would never allow you to pay me, Sean, but promise me you will call me if I can help you,” she said, handing him her business card.

“I promise,” he said.

Phryne could tell that Sean was not going to confide in her. The brick wall in the form of Sean Murphy bore a striking resemblance to the brick wall she sometimes encountered in the form of Jack Robinson. She knew there was no point in pursuing the matter further, at least not directly.

Sean poured them each a cup of tea, and they made small talk until they felt calm. Phryne had come to update Sean on the case developments, but mostly to discuss Jack's worrisome new assignment.

“Jack has been ordered to train with William Everett and race the Warrny?” Sean asked. When Phryne nodded, he howled with laughter.

“That's not the reaction I was expecting, Sean,” Phryne said, distressed. “The Warrny is an extremely long race, and Jack is not a young man. In addition to someone trying to kill him, he could injure himself racing 165 miles in a single day.”

Sean apologized and begged Phryne to allow him to explain. He led her to the cycling club rooms at the back of the pub. She looked around at all the cycling magazines, photographs, ribbons, trophies, and equipment, while Sean sought his photo albums in the desk. He flipped open the first album to an old photo of the Warrny.

“What is this?” she asked. “It looks old. From before the war.”

“Yes,” he said. “That photo was taken at the end of the 1911 Warrnambool to Melbourne road race, the last Warrny held before the war.”

“Is that you crossing the finish line ahead of the others?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I won the Blue Riband that year.”

“You won the Warrny, Sean?!” Phryne exclaimed. “Jack said you were one of the best cyclists in Australia, but I thought he was exaggerating. You won the Warrny?!”

“Yes, I won the race twice actually,” he chuckled.

“So you are a two-time national road cycling champion?!” she cheered.

“Yes,” he repeated, a bit overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. “Now look closely at the photograph. Look at the cyclist to my right who took second place, the wiry guy with the broad shoulders and curly hair flopping down onto his forehead.”

She was gobsmacked. “No! Jack Robinson raced the Warrny?!” she cried. Phryne could not have been more excited if the race had taken place that day. She remembered when she and Jack had spoken about their childhood dreams. He had said his dream was to ride in the Tour de France, but she had no idea he had come so close to achieving it.

Sean laughed. “He not only raced, he took second place. Twice,” he said. “I hope you understand now why I am not very worried about his new assignment. Yes, he is older, but he is in excellent shape, and he still rides his pushbike all the time.”

“Why didn't he tell me?” she asked.

“You know Jack, Miss Fisher,” he said. “Have you ever seen him boast about anything or draw attention to himself outside of his police work? He is much happier leaning up against a door frame watching others.”

Sean ran his hand over the photograph, remembering the races he and Jack rode. “He was lightning fast, but he also had enough endurance, or maybe it was stubbornness, to last to the end of the race. I tried to convince him to return to racing after the war, but he said it was time for him to focus on being a policeman,” he said. “I think he felt guilty because I couldn't ride anymore.”

“Jack said you lost your leg because you saved his life,” she said.

“What?! That's ridiculous!” Sean thundered. “I lost my leg because I was at war and the enemy damn near killed me! By the time I lost my leg, Jack had saved my life hundreds of times, and I had saved him just as often. It's a miracle we came back at all. We lost so many friends and family members in the early days that neither one of us thought we would ever see Australia again. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, Miss Fisher.”

“No, you don't,” she replied somberly. The faces of all the young men she tried to save during the war still haunted her dreams more than 10 years later.

“I ought to tear him in two for talking nonsense,” Sean grumbled.

Phryne smiled. She really liked Sean. She loved that Jack had someone who would set him straight when he was being foolish. Everyone should have a friend like that, she thought. Everyone needs a Mac.


	8. Chapter 8

Jack stayed close to Billy for most of the morning, but by late morning he had slipped behind. He could still see Billy, but he was grateful that Beasley was following the champion in the motorcar. Beasley, for his part, watched over Billy, but glanced regularly in the rear-view mirror for his inspector. As the cyclists returned to Melbourne from their first trip to Geelong, they were met by two cars waiting on the side of the road: a police motorcar and a taxicab. Collins jumped out of the police vehicle to brief Jack on the murder in Warrnambool, while Bert and Cec brought baskets of food and drinks to Jack, Billy and Sergeant Beasley.

Billy gratefully accepted the basket Cec handed him, which contained an enormous lunch prepared by Mr. Butler. As he ate, he observed the police officers. It was easy to forget that Jack was a police detective when they were riding. Watching him direct the investigation, however, Billy could understand why the commissioner had spoken so highly of him.

Collins handed Jack the paperwork from the Warrnambool murder. The body was found in an isolated area. The cyclist hadn't been identified. The victim had wounds to the back of the head. No murder weapon was found. The bicycle was stashed under shrubs.

“This looks like the same perpetrator, Collins,” Jack said.

“Yes, sir.” he replied. “Inspector Brown in Warrnambool said he wouldn't have known the victim was a cyclist if you hadn't called him yesterday, sir. He said they never would have searched for a bicycle.”

“This report doesn't list the color of the pushbike, Collins,” Jack said.

“The color of the bike, sir?” he asked.

“Yes. Get a description of the bicycle, including the brand name and the color, and get a photo of the victim," Jack said. "Bring me the photo so we can find out if Mr. Everett knew the victim. Then I want you and Foster to take the photo around to the local cycling club rooms and see if anyone recognizes him.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, scribbling feverishly in his notebook.

“This part is important, Collins,” Jack continued. “Do not tell them that the victim was a cyclist. Tell them that the victim had been seen in the area. Also, do not tell them about Tom Woods' murder. The Warrnambool race is three weeks away, and we don't want to panic cyclists. Make sure all the police stations between here and Warrnambool receive a copy of the Warrnambool report and a photo of the victim. I've kept those stations informed about the Woods' case. I'll brief them again when I get back tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said.

“Also, tell Miss Fisher about the Warrnambool murder,” Jack said.

“I already did, sir,” he said.

“Good man,” Jack said. “Any luck locating an address for Willoughby?”

“Not yet, sir,” Collins said.

 

Jack sat down next to Billy and opened his lunch hamper. He found a note from Phryne inside.

 

_Darling Jack,_

 

_I visited Sean this morning to discuss your new assignment. Your secret has been revealed, and I'm not as worried as I was. I'll have a hot bath waiting._

 

_Your_

_Phryne_

 

Jack sighed, thinking how easily Phryne could have extracted any information she wanted from Sean.

Billy looked at the note Jack was reading. “It's not another murder, is it?” Billy asked.

“No, it's nothing like that,” Jack said. “The note is from Miss Fisher. It seems I am no longer a man of mystery. She has uncovered some things from my youth.”

“Like when you raced the Warrny?” Billy asked.

“You know about that?” Jack asked.

“Of course I know,” he said. “Why do you think I asked the commissioner for you as my training partner? He had suggested someone closer to my age, but you have raced the Warrny before.”

“I think you should have chosen a younger man,” Jack said sincerely. “My racing days were a lifetime ago.”

“Nonsense! I've seen you riding your pushbike lots of times. I didn't realize you were a policeman, of course, but I recognized you when I met you at the station,” Billy said. “Listen, we've already traveled more than half the distance of the Warrny. I haven't slowed my pace to accommodate you, and you're still with me. I think if you were going to collapse, you would have done it by now.”

“I wouldn't be too sure, Billy,” he said.

Billy was quiet for a while, trying to decide if he should ask the question that had been on his mind all morning. “Do you know who was killed in Warrnambool?” he asked.

“No, not yet,” he said.

“Does the other murder mean that I wasn't the target of Tom's killer?” Billy asked.

“It's too early to tell, but I'm not convinced,” Jack said. “And the other murder doesn't eliminate our need to protect you. I'm sorry, Billy, but you're stuck with me for a little while longer.”

After their short break, Jack and Billy once again pointed their bicycles toward Geelong.

 

*

 

Phryne found him asleep in the tub. Poor lamb, she thought. The amount of love she felt for this man both thrilled and terrified her. How had she allowed herself to fall so deeply, hopelessly in love? She's Phryne Fisher, for Pete's sake, not some starry-eyed schoolgirl! Phryne sat beside the tub and lathered soap onto the damp terry washcloth. She tenderly slid the cloth across the shoulders and down the arms of the sleeping man.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, dear reader, as some characters will lapse briefly into World War 1 soldier lingo in this chapter. I will provide a glossary in the end notes. By the way, if anyone is writing fanfic about World War 1, may I recommend "Digger Dialects" by W.H.Downing of the 57th batt., AIF? It's a small book, but it is available free to read/download online.

Jack awoke early the next morning, expecting to be throbbing with pain from head to toe. He not only wasn't sore, he found that he could move freely. Well, except for the beautiful woman sprawled across him. He smiled. How had he been so lucky to win the heart of this exquisite, fascinating woman? What could he ever possibly have done to deserve such happiness? He caressed the top of her head and lightly combed his fingers through her silky black hair.

“Good morning,” he breathed when she stirred.

“Mmm,” she moaned, not quite ready to greet the day. “How are you feeling?” she mumbled into his chest.

“Surprisingly well,” he said, running his hand down her back. “That salve you put on me last night must have magical properties.”

“It's nommnnnmonnmm,” she hummed.

“What?” he chuckled. She really wasn't a morning person, and to be perfectly fair, it wasn't yet morning. The sky was still completely, resolutely black.

“It's not the balm that's magic,” she purred.

He laughed. “That's true,” he said. “You've certainly enchanted me.”

He kissed her goodbye and pulled on his cycling clothes.

 

*

 

Jack stopped by City South Station to check for news on the case. He found a note from Collins about the Warrnambool murder. As Jack had suspected, the color of the victim's bicycle was yellow. Collins wrote that the Warrnambool police could not identify a brand name – apparently the head badge had come off the pushbike. Collins also reported that he and Foster were unsuccessful in finding anyone in the local cycling clubs who could identify the Warrnambool victim. As Billy didn't recognize the victim from the photo the day before, Jack was beginning to think that the victim lived in Warrnambool. He hoped there would be more news from the Warrnambool police today. There was still no lead on Jimmy Willoughby. Jack left Collins a note asking him to see what information he could find on George and Cyril Nelson.

 

*

 

Jack met Billy promptly at 7:00 a.m. Billy was surprised to see Jack. He was even more surprised to find Jack looking so fresh and seemingly unaffected by yesterday's long ride. “Good morning, Jack,” he greeted. “How do you feel? You don't look any worse for the wear.”

“Good morning, Billy,” Jack replied. “I'm feeling well, thank you. Miss Fisher gave me a salve to soothe my tired muscles, and it seems to be working. May I offer you a scone?”

“Yes, thank you,” Billy said.

“This beats milk, bread and Bovril, doesn't it?” Jack asked.

Billy laughed. “It sure does,” he said. “Please convey my thanks to Miss Fisher and Mr. Butler for the delicious food. Mr. Butler is an excellent cook.”

“Yes, he is. Miss Fisher has suggested more than once that I only spend time with her so I can sample Mr. Butler's fine cooking,” Jack chuckled.

 

*

 

There was a knock at the door of Sean Murphy's home at precisely 9:00 a.m. Two men greeted him. “Sean Murphy?” the shorter, grumpy-looking one asked.

“Yes,” Sean acknowledged.

“We're here to collect you and Fang,” he said.

“You and whose army?” Sean asked, picking up the cricket bat he kept by the door and fixing them both with a look of pure steel.

“Whoa! Take it easy, mate,” the taller, friendly-looking one said. “We're here to give you a lift to the pub, that's all.”

“Miss Fisher's orders,” the grumpy one said.

Sean stared at the two men, not sure what to do. They didn't look like they meant to do him harm, but he didn't like being ordered around – he'd had enough of that in the AIF.

“You may as well save yourself the trouble and do as the lady says,” the grumpy one said. “Miss Fisher gets what she wants in the end.”

“Cripes! She's as bad as Jack!” Sean said.

“They're as bad as each other,” the friendly one said.

“That's a bad knock, digger. How'd it happen?” the grumpy one asked, pointing with his chin at Sean's missing leg.

“I caught a tram car at the Blood Bath in Pozieres,” Sean said. “Nearly became a landowner.”

“I'm sorry, mate,” the grumpy one said. “Looks like you had a rough trot.”

“We saw all the sights,” Sean said. “First we fought Abdul on the peninsh, and then we hit the Somme for the Blood Bath.”

“Cec and me were with you in the corpse factory,” the grumpy one said.

They must be Bert and Cec, Sean thought, the red raggers Jack talked about. “If he's Cec, that would make you Bert, wouldn't it?” Sean asked the grumpy one.

“That's right,” Bert said. “How'd you know?”

“Jack told me about you two,” Sean said.

“The Inspector? That can't be good,” Cec said.

“You'd be surprised,” Sean said, smiling.

Sean stepped inside, said goodbye to his wife, and grabbed Fang. The three men and the dog headed for the pub together.

 

*

 

Jack and Billy collected their hampers and sat down to enjoy their lunch. “Billy, I need to ask you some questions for the investigation,” Jack began.

“All right,” he replied.

“Can you tell me anything about Tom Woods' life back in Adelaide?” Jack asked.

“I don't know anything about his life before he came to Melbourne, except with regard to cycling,” he said. “I know he won every race he entered before he came to Melbourne, and after riding with him for three weeks, I could understand why. He was extremely fast with boundless energy. I think he would have kept pace with me in the Warrny. He was going to be a champion.”

“Was he really that good?” Jack asked.

“Yes, he was,” Billy said. “He would have been a credit to the sport.”

“What about your cousin Harry?” Jack asked. “Would he be able to tell me more about Mr. Woods?”

“Yes, they were mates,” he said. “He will be coming in from Adelaide with Tom's father, Frederick Woods, to collect Tom's body. I'm sure he will want to help you in any way he can.”

“Thank you, Billy,” Jack said. “There is someone else we're curious about: Jimmy Willoughby. Do you know who I mean?”

“Yes,” Billy replied. “I collided with him during the 1926 Warrny.”

“What happened?” Jack asked.

“Jimmy Willoughby and I were sprinting to the finish line and we drifted into each other," he said. "The League disqualified me, but I knew it wasn't right, so I appealed it. They exonerated me, but they said I was negligent.”

“Did Mr. Willoughby have any hard feelings about the race?” Jack asked. “Was he angry with you about the collision? Did he say anything to you at the time?”

“I don't know if he was angry. I didn't know him. He didn't say anything to me after the race, and I never saw him again after that," Billy said. "Do you really think someone would kill me over a cycling race?”

“Billy, you would be shocked by the reasons people commit murder,” Jack said.

 

*

 

“Good afternoon, ladies. Please help yourselves to the divine lunch Mr. Butler has prepared for you,” Phryne began, as she addressed the crowd of women gathered in her parlor. “Thank you, ladies, for rearranging your schedules in order to attend this emergency meeting of The Adventuresses Club. I need your help with an investigation.”

“Does the Inspector know about this?” Mac whispered in Phryne's ear.

“Not exactly,” Phryne admitted quietly. “Will your presence here cause you trouble at the hospital?”

“No more than usual,” she replied. “How much trouble will you be in with the Inspector?”

“I'm trying not to think about that,” Phryne said.

Addressing the crowd once again, Phryne continued, “Ladies, someone has murdered two cyclists along the Princes Highway, which as you know, is the course for the Warrnambool to Melbourne cycling road race. Those two young men riding their pushbikes could just as easily have been two young women. I think we owe it to our fellow adventurers to find the person who did this and bring him or her to justice. The race is less than three weeks away, so we don't want to panic cyclists. We will have to be discreet. What say you, ladies, will you help?” The room filled with enthusiastic applause.

The meeting was a success. The adventuresses planned to quietly learn what they could about anyone harassing cyclists, to listen for any rumors coming out of the cycling clubs, and to find the whereabouts of Jimmy Willoughby. In addition, Helen Walker, President of the Austral Wheel Club for Ladies, promised to arrange a private interview for Phryne and Dot with the President of the League of Victorian Wheelmen.

 

*

 

“Absolutely not!” Jack roared.

“I don't know why you're being so dramatic, darling,” Phryne said. “You are undercover as a professional cyclist. In fact, you are acting as decoy for the Australian cycling _champion_. You have to look the part, and your cycling clothes will not fool anyone.”

“I can do the job perfectly well in my own cycling clothes, thank you,” he said.

“You're just being stubborn, Jack,” she said. “If the killer is smart enough to identify his victim from a yellow bicycle, then you can bet that he can discern the difference between a policeman's cycling clothes and the those of the country's top cyclist.”

Pointing to the new cycling outfits Phryne bought him, stacked neatly on a chair in the parlor, Jack said, “Those clothes won't cover me at all. The fabric is so thin that I may as well be wearing my bathing costume.”

“Well, if you'd prefer ….” she said.

“I am a policeman, Phryne. I cannot do my job if I am the subject of ridicule, and I certainly will be if I'm riding through the streets of Melbourne naked.”

“The material is of the highest quality, Jack,” she assured him.

“I'm sure it is, Phryne, but that doesn't make it any more substantial,” he replied. “There's a distinct lack of ... modesty.”

“It isn't as bad as that. Here, stop fussing and try them on,” she said, handing him the black shorts and gray top. He sighed and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

He returned to the parlor a moment later wearing the new cycling outfit. He could feel her eyes roaming over every inch of his body as he stood before her. “Phryne, I appreciate your efforts to help, but I cannot be seen in public dressed like this,” he said.

“Sean said it was the latest fashion in professional cycling attire,” she said.

“Sean helped you choose this?! I'll be sure to thank him,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Butler showed Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Collins into the parlor for their scheduled dinner party. “Whoa! Sorry, sir! We, uh, didn't mean to interrupt, uh, anything, sir!” Hugh Collins said, while trying to shield his wife Dottie's eyes from the sight of his nearly naked inspector.

Jack grabbed a pillow from one of the chairs and held it in front of him. “You're fine, Hugh. You didn't interrupt anything. In fact, you proved my point, so thank you. If you'll excuse me, I'll change back into proper clothes,” Jack said, shooting a pointed look at Phryne who rolled her eyes in response.

“We proved your point, Inspector?” Dot asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Collins,” he replied. “Miss Fisher procured this outfit for me to wear on my undercover assignment as a cyclist. I was just explaining to her that, as a policeman, I cannot be seen riding around Melbourne naked.”

“But you're not a policeman, you're a cyclist. Undercover, I mean,” Dot said. “And that outfit looks just like what the cyclists were wearing in the race I saw with Miss Fisher last year.”

“Thank you, Dot,” Phryne said.

Alarmed, Hugh asked, “You noticed their outfits, Dottie?!”

“Of course I noticed, Hugh,” she said. “I'm a seamstress. I appreciate a fine jersey knit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> milk, bread and Bovril: The Warrny was sponsored by the Dunlop Tyre Co. (and was for a time, in fact, called the Dunlop Road Race -- boring!), which provided riders with food along the course, specifically milk, bread and Bovril. The Warrny still exists, by the way. It's called the Warrnambool Classic, and last month was its 100th running. (Australia's oldest one-day race, 2nd oldest worldwide.) I suspect a certain actor has a time medallion or two from the race.
> 
> knock = wound  
> tram car = a heavy long-distance shell (sounds like a rumbling tram car as it passes overhead)  
> Blood Bath = refers to the battle of the Somme in July-August 1916  
> nearly became a landowner = almost died  
> rough trot = a bad time  
> Abdul = Turkish soldier  
> peninsh = Gallipoli  
> corpse factory = The Western Front
> 
> The Austral Wheel Club for Ladies existed and held their first ride through Melbourne in March, 1895. The Sydney Ladies' Bicycle Club was the first club for women cyclists in Australia, created on February 6, 1895.
> 
> Hubert Opperman in his cycling clothes:  
> http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/photos-e6frg8zf-1226644672732?page=4


	10. Chapter 10

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Phryne greeted, as she stepped into her kitchen, clad in her peach pajamas and black robe.

“Good morning, Miss,” the men replied.

Mr. Butler had just served Bert and Cec a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and drop scones. He handed her a cup of tea and silently inquired if she would like to eat in the kitchen or the dining room. Phryne pulled out a chair and sat down next to Bert.

“What did you learn at the pub?” she asked, as a plate of toast with butter and jam appeared in front of her.

“I learned it's cruel to put a man in a pub all day, but not let him gamble or drink,” Bert grumbled.

“I only told you not to overindulge, Bert – you were there on a fact-finding mission, after all,” she admonished. “And I never said you couldn't gamble.”

“There was no gambling to be had, Miss,” Cec said.

“No gambling?” she asked.

“Not even two-up,” Bert griped. “Gambling is illegal, and the word is that Sean has a silent partner who is a real stickler for the law.”

“Does he now?” Phryne asked, intrigued. “Were you able to find out about the two men I saw?”

“Sean wouldn't spill,” Bert reported.

“The regulars said that some of the local barkeeps look like they'd been roughed up lately,” Cec said.

“Now that is interesting,” Phryne said.

 

Phryne didn't want to wait until that night to discuss Sean's situation with Jack, so she told Bert and Cec to spend the day at the pub with Sean – she would deliver lunch to the cyclists.

 

*

 

There are definite advantages to being the lunch lady, Phryne mused, as she watched the men pedal in from Geelong.

“Miss Fisher!” Jack called, surprised to see her. “We're not really in any condition for polite company.”

“On the contrary, Jack, I prefer my men hot and bothered,” she purred, placing her hand on his chest.

“How could they not be when they're in your presence,” he growled. She lingered for a long moment before she remembered they were in public.

“Billy, It's lovely to see you again,” Phryne greeted, handing him his lunch hamper.

“Likewise, Miss Fisher,” he replied. “May I compliment you on your stylish black beret? I brought one home with me from France, and I wear it on all my winter rides.”

“Thank you, Billy,” she said. “I'm delighted to know a man with such excellent taste in hats. Jack doesn't share our fondness for the black beret. In fact, he has a Pavlovian response to mine. Every time he sees me in it, he wants to clap me in irons for fear I'll commit a break-and-enter offense.”

“It's not Pavlov that makes me want to clap you in irons, Miss Fisher, it's a policeman's knowledge of your modus operandi,” Jack said, smirking.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” she replied innocently.

“If the beret fits ….” Jack quipped.

 

Phryne took Jack aside and apprised him of the situation at Sean's pub, describing the suspicious men she witnessed at the pub and relaying her conversation with Bert and Cec. “I wonder if it has something to do with Sean's silent partner,” she offered.

“There is no silent partner,” Jack said.

“How could he have afforded to buy the pub himself?” she asked. “Perhaps he just didn't tell you about the partner.”

“His parents left him the house and some money,” he explained. “It wasn't much, but it was enough to convince the bank to loan him the rest. Sean circulated the story that he has a silent partner who makes all the rules because it was easier than having to continually defend his decisions.”

“So why no gambling?” she asked.

“Sean knew that gambling and sly grog meant gangs,” he said. “He didn't want to become involved with gangs, and he didn't want to put me in a difficult position by doing anything illegal.”

Phryne told Jack that he needed to convince Sean to accept their help. She would invite Sean and his wife Mary for dinner to give them a chance to talk. Jack agreed and said he would order his men to follow up on the report that area publicans are being assaulted.

Phryne was about to leave when Collins arrived. “Hello, Hugh!” she said.

“Hello, Miss,” he replied, as he hurried toward the inspector.

“What is it, Collins?” Jack asked.

“We heard back from Geelong, sir,” he said. “A cycling club there, the Geelong West Cycling Club, said the Warrnambool victim was one of their cyclists. According to the inspector in Geelong, the victim was training for the Warrny when he was killed.”

“Good work, Collins,” Jack said. “Do we have a name?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “The victim was David Horgan."

“Did they find a link to either Mr. Everett or Mr. Woods?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” Collins said.

Billy, who sat nearby eating his lunch, heard the officers' conversation.

“Does the name 'David Horgan' mean anything to you, Billy?” Jack asked.

“No, I'm sorry, it doesn't,” he replied.

 

*

 

Bert and Cec dropped Mr. and Mrs. Sean Murphy at Wardlow for dinner at 8:00 p.m. Sean wore his best suit and Mary wore a dress that, though not expensive, reflected her flawless sense of style. Mary Murphy possessed a kind of stunning beauty that people noticed: her wavy brown hair meandered down her back, and her brown eyes sparkled when she smiled. Moreover, Mary Murphy was smart, an attribute that Sean both admired and relied upon.

Sean and Mary Murphy had the kind of marriage that people hoped for. Throughout their 17 years of marriage, their deep, abiding love for each other grew ever stronger. Their love nourished, comforted and empowered each of them.

Mary Murphy was nervous about meeting Phryne. She had heard all about her, of course – Jack had been regaling the Murphys with Miss Fisher stories for the past year – but she had never met anyone from that part of society. Sean assured her that Phryne was every bit as friendly as Jack had described, but that was hard to imagine while standing in front of the luxurious mansion. As soon as Mr. Butler showed the Murphys into the parlor, however, Mary's fear abated and she knew she would love Phryne.

Phryne greeted her guests warmly, as if they lived down the street rather than across town. She took their hands and insisted that they call her “Phryne.” She even made fun of Jack for stubbornly refusing that request for more than a year, only availing himself of her given name when he was in fear for her life. Phryne treated Sean and Mary with such genuine affection that they couldn't help adoring her in return.

Before the party sat down to dinner, Jack asked Sean to join him for a walk. “What's been happening at the pub, Sean?” Jack asked. “Phryne said she interrupted some thugs who were about to hurt you.”

“Miss Fisher is mistaken,” Sean replied. “She didn't see anything, and there is nothing going on.”

“Sean, you've heard my stories about Phryne,” Jack said. “I trust her instincts more than I trust my gun. If she says those men were about to beat you, then those men were about to beat you. Why won't you talk to me about this? I'm not only a policeman, I'm your best mate.”

“There is nothing for you to worry about, Jack,” Sean argued. “You need to focus on your undercover assignment so you don't get yourself killed.”

“My mind is fully capable of considering more than one thing at a time. Now tell me what's going on. Trust me, you don't want me to let Phryne put the screws to you,” Jack said. “Before she's finished, she will know every secret you never knew you had.”

“All right,” he replied. “There's a new gang trying to force me to sell their sly grog and install their bookmaker. I've never seen them before. They must be new because the old gangs know better than to try it with me. This new gang is being … insistent.”

“The commissioner won't release me from my current assignment, so I will give you a choice: either let me put a man under cover in the pub, or allow Phryne to help you,” Jack said.

“If you station a man in the pub, Jack, it will be the end of the pub,” Sean said. “You know that you and your men are welcome there anytime, but you cannot put someone in the pub officially, even under cover. Please.”

“Will you allow Phryne to help you?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Sean acquiesced.

“Good,” Jack said. “Now, about your helping Phryne buy me cycling clothes ….” Sean burst out laughing.

"It's not funny, Sean," Jack said. "She expects me to wear them." Sean laughed even harder.

 

When Jack and Sean returned, the two couples sat down to a delicious meal prepared by Mr. Butler. After a short time discussing the Murphy children and Jane's much-anticipated return, the conversation turned, as it usually did with Phryne and Jack, to murder.

“How is the case coming, Jack?” Sean asked.

“We've made some progress, but we still have more questions than answers,” Jack reported.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Sean asked.

“You've already been very helpful, and I'm grateful for that, Sean,” Jack replied.

“The problem is that the second murder has, in a sense, sent us back to the beginning,” Phryne explained.

“Do you still think the murderer was trying to kill William Everett?” Sean asked.

“That's one possibility,” Jack said.

“Or it could have been someone trying twice to kill David Horgan,” Phryne added. “Or someone could have successfully tried to kill both Tom Woods and David Horgan, or it could have been someone unrelated to any of them with an aversion to yellow pushbikes.”

“I see the problem,” Sean said.

“We're not just trying to find the right suspect, we're still not sure if we have the right victims,” Jack replied. “The only thing we know for certain that the victims had in common is they were cyclists who were training for the Warrny on yellow pushbikes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Hubert "Oppy" Opperman was known to wear a black beret while riding his pushbike in the years following the 1928 Tour de France. His beret is in the National Museum of Australia, and you can see it here:  
> http://www.nma.gov.au/collections/highlights/hubert_oppermans_beret  
> Thank goodness that man existed or I would have had to make him up!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who may be reading this fic:
> 
> I sincerely apologize for my absence. A setback in the long-term illness of a family member has kept me away from writing. Happily we have experienced somewhat of a rebound, so I can return to writing my little story five minutes at a time. I will try to wrap up quickly before anything else happens.

Jack was becoming frustrated with the lack of progress in the case. They had not found Jimmy Willoughby. Collins had uncovered nothing suspicious in the backgrounds of George and Cyril Nelson. And police in Geelong had failed to identify a motive or suspect in the death of David Horgan. He was beginning to worry that he would never find Tom Woods' killer.

Jack and Billy took the day off from cycling in order to meet the train carrying Tom Woods' father, Frederick Woods, and Billy's cousin, Harry Everett. The visitors had traveled from Adelaide to escort Tom Woods' body home. Jack debated what to tell Frederick Woods about his son's murder. This type of murder always hit Jack hard. He didn't like to call them senseless murders because, to him, all murders were senseless. But the murder of a likable young man who was quietly pursuing his dream without hurting anyone filled Jack with sadness. Jack doubted the killer even knew who Tom Woods was. Should he confide this to the young man's father? Would it help to know that the boy he had raised to be a credit to all who knew him was killed by accident or without reason? How could that possibly ease the pain of a parent whose child was taken from him? In the end, Jack said nothing except to offer his sincere condolences for his loss.

Once arrangements were made for Tom Woods' journey home, Jack sat down to question Harry Everett. He learned from Mr. Everett that, prior to coming to Melbourne, Tom Woods assembled Holden car bodies at Holden Motor Body Builders in Woodville. “That's how we met,” Mr. Everett said. “I started at the plant a year before Tom, so I showed him what to do. We became friends.”

“Was Mr. Woods friendly with his co-workers?” Jack asked.

“Everyone liked Tom,” Mr. Everett said. “He was on the quiet side, but he was a good guy. No one had complaints about Tom.”

“No one? Are you sure?” Jack asked.

“No one,” Mr. Everett said.

“What did you think about Mr. Woods leaving his job and coming to Melbourne to train with your cousin?”

“I'm the one who told cousin Billy about Tom. I had seen Tom race, and I knew Billy would be impressed with him. I knew that if Billy would let Tom train with him, Tom could be a top cyclist like Billy,” Mr. Everett said. “Of course, now I'm sorry I said anything.”

“Did your cousin Billy accept new training partners easily?” Jack asked.

“Of course not,” Mr. Everett said. “I sent Billy the results of Tom's races and the address of Tom's cycling club so Billy could inquire about Tom.”

“Did Tom communicate with you after he arrived in Melbourne? Did he mention any problems outside of cycling?” Jack asked.

“He sent me a couple of letters,” Mr. Everett replied. “He didn't mention any trouble. He said he loved riding with Billy. He was happy.”

“How did Mr. Woods train for his races back in Adelaide?” Jack asked.

“He did what everyone else did – he rode his pushbike either after work or in the early hours before work,” Mr. Everett said.

“So Mr. Woods was familiar with cycling in the dark?” Jack asked.

“Of course,” Mr. Everett said. “When he prepared for long races, he practically rode through the night.” That sounded right to Jack. When he and Sean used to race, they trained for their races either before or after work. For a race like the Warrny, where it could take 8 hours or longer to reach the finish line, Jack and Sean rode late into the night, every night, in the weeks leading up to the race.

 

*

 

Phryne and Dot arrived for their meeting with Samuel Nichol, president of the League of Victorian Wheelmen, prepared to divide and conquer. While Phryne peppered Mr. Nichol with questions about the league's safety record, particularly vis-a-vis collisions between race participants and crashes involving cyclists and motorcars, Dot would endear herself to Mr. Nichol's secretary. Fortunately Mr. Nichol's secretary, Edna, was by nature both friendly and accommodating.

Dot began by talking about the weather and soon moved on to sewing, baking, her favorite flowers, different blends of tea, and, of course, her husband Hugh. Dot loved the phrase “my husband Hugh.” She thought she could probably find a way to work those words into every single sentence if she tried. She loved being married to Hugh Collins and found herself thinking about him or talking about him most of the time. She wondered if Hugh did the same.

Once she and Edna were acquainted, Dot casually asked how many members the league had and how the league kept track of them. Edna very kindly showed Dot the cabinets where they stored member information. “My friend's sister's husband's cousin is a Victorian Wheelman,” Dot said. “We haven't heard from him in a while, so I don't know if he still is, but I know he was.”

“We can see if he is still a member, if you would like,” Edna offered helpfully. “We're not supposed to do that, but since he's family, I'm sure it will be all right. What is his last name?”

“Willoughby,” Dot replied gratefully. “His first name is James.”

Edna efficiently plucked Jimmy Willoughby's file from the cabinet and brought it to her desk. “Oh, it appears we haven't heard from Mr. Willoughby since 1926. That's a shame, especially since he did so well in his last race,” Edna said, as she closed the file and prepared to return it to the cabinet.

Dot felt terrible about spilling her tea all over Edna's desk, but she was running out of smalltalk, and she could think of no other way to steal a peek at the file's contents. She resolved to knit Edna a hat as an apology. “I'm so sorry!” she said. “I don't know why I'm so clumsy today.” Dot glanced at the address listed in the file and then helped Edna clean up the terrible mess on her desk.

By the time Phryne emerged from Mr. Nichol's office, Edna's desk was spotless, and Dot and Edna were best friends.

 

As Phryne prepared to climb into her beloved Hispano Suiza motorcar, she handed Dot some photographs to hold for her. “What are these, Miss?” Dot asked.

“Those are some pictures that fell out of Mr. Nichol's photograph album,” Phryne replied.

“Who's this?” Dot asked, pointing to the image in the first photograph.

“That, my dear Dot, is the third-place winner of the 1926 Warrnambool cycling road race, one James Willoughby,” she said. “I thought it might be nice if we had a better idea of who we were looking for.”

“He is nice looking,” Dot said, before quickly adding, “not that I would notice that sort of thing. I am a married woman.”

“Of course you notice, Dot,” Phryne reassured her. “What kind of detective would you be if you didn't notice the details?”

“Who are these others, Miss?” Dottie asked.

“Oh, just a second-place winner from a couple of earlier races,” Phryne said, feeling only slightly embarrassed about behaving like a schoolgirl and stealing photographs of Jack as a young man.

 

Phryne recognized the address Dot gave her as the same one Jack's constables had unearthed for Jimmy Willoughby. Still, Phryne knew that people were more likely to speak to her than they were to a policeman. When they reached the boarding house listed as Jimmy Willoughby's address, Phryne and Dot questioned tenants and neighbors alike, but no one had seen or heard of Jimmy Willoughby for the past three years. No one knew where Mr. Willoughby went or why. No one knew he had planned to leave. In fact, no one knew exactly when he left.

“I liked him,” the landlord Mr. Smith said. “He was a good tenant and a nice young man.”

“Do you know if he had any family?” she asked.

“None that he mentioned,” he said.

“Were you surprised that he left without telling you in advance?” Phryne asked.

“No, people come and go a lot around here,” he replied. “I stored his things for him, in case he came back for them, but eventually I had to give them away.”

“To whom did you give his bicycle?” she asked.

“Oh, he didn't leave that behind. I would have been surprised if he left that – he was never without that pushbike,” he said. “He only left clothes and books and things.”

“A shaving kit? Razor? Shaving brush? Soap?” Phryne asked.

“I gave those to the tenant who lived across the hall from him,” he said. “He was a poor lad, and I'm sure Jimmy Willoughby would have approved.”

 

As they returned to the motorcar, Dot asked, “Where do we look now, Miss?”

“I think we're done looking for Jimmy Willoughby, Dot,” Phryne replied.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that Chapter 11 was added today, as well.

Phryne awoke the next morning entwined with her favorite inspector. “Mmm,” she hummed, as she snuggled into him, “you're still here.”

“Mm. Hmm,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “Good morning.”

“To what do I owe my good fortune?” she asked.

“Billy is seeing off Frederick Woods and Harry Everett at the train station this morning, so we won't begin cycling until noon today,” he said. “We can sleep in.”

“That means you will be cycling in the dark tonight,” Phryne said, unable to hide her anxiety.

“Yes, we will finally be cycling at about the time the murders occurred,” he said.

“Promise me you'll be careful,” she said.

“I'll be careful,” he promised. “In fact, I was wondering if I could borrow your compact. I think a small mirror might prove useful for cycling on the highway at night.”

“Of course,” she said. Phryne was enjoying the feel of Jack's hands roaming over her body when she remembered her own plans for the day. “Damn,” she murmured.

“What's wrong?” Jack asked.

“We can't sleep in. I start my job as Sean's waitress this morning,” she sighed. “Actually, since you're making a late start, could you stop by the pub on your way to meet Billy?” Phryne asked. “I need you to play my jealous lover so I won't have any problems with the customers.”

“Do you really think it's necessary, Phryne?” Jack asked. “I know the regulars at Sean's pub, and they won't give you any trouble, especially with Sean there.”

“It's not the regulars I'm worried about, Jack,” Phryne said. “And I don't want to be distracted from the case by having to restrain myself from stabbing a customer with a fork.”

Jack chuckled. “Everyone knows me at Sean's pub. I don't know what they will think if I walk in there scowling at everyone and pretending to be jealous,” he pleaded.

“You'll be wearing cycling clothes, so they'll know you are under cover,” she said.

“Not necessarily. They've seen me in my cycling clothes before,” he replied.

“They will if you wear the cycling clothes I bought you,” she said.

He groaned.

“I suppose I could ask someone else to play my jealous lover, if you would prefer,” Phryne suggested.

“What if I play your lover – without the jealous part?” Jack offered.

“That could work,” Phryne conceded, “but you still have to wear the new cycling clothes.”

He sighed, thinking of all the crazy, terrifying, embarrassing things she's convinced him to do. Then he smiled, knowing that he wouldn't want it any other way.

 

*

 

Phryne received a warm welcome when she arrived at the pub. Sean had established her cover the day before when he announced that he hired a new waitress as a favor to Jack and expected everyone to be nice to her. “Florence” from Collingwood proved to be a talented waitress who easily won over the hearts of the patrons with her beauty and charm. Once she settled into her role, Phryne met with Sean to explain their plan. “We need to find out who is in charge. You said they weren't local, so we also have to find out where they are from,” she advised. “As much as I would love to throw the crims out of the pub, we have to engage them long enough to demand to meet with their boss.”

“The hooligans who came here before were not interested in talking,” Sean said.

“I know,” she said. “So we will have to become a problem for them.”

“How do we do that?” Sean asked.

“We fight back a little. No guns or knives – we will use what's in the pub to fend them off,” she instructed. “How are you with plates?”

“What?” he asked.

As she walked back toward the customers, Phryne mentioned that she had asked Jack to stop by and pretend to be her lover to ensure that her customers behave. Sean laughed. He said he didn't think it was necessary, but he looked forward to the entertainment.

As he pedaled toward the pub, Jack spied a motorcar parked across the street with a couple of unsavory-looking men sitting in it. He rode around the block to get a better look at the men, and he noted the car's registration number.

Jack parked the yellow pushbike inside the door of the pub – he couldn't leave it outside because it was still police evidence. When his eyes met Phryne's, Jack didn't have to fake the smile that spread across his face. Nor did he have to pretend the way his arms naturally enveloped her in his embrace. He greeted her with a long, lingering kiss, stubbornly ignoring the noises made by the customers. When they separated, he quietly warned her about the men sitting in the motorcar across the street. He borrowed her pencil and paper, and wrote down the car's registration number and a note for Collins. He offered to stay or send policemen, but she declined. They spoke for another moment, then, as he prepared to leave, he took her in his arms again and kissed her passionately.

Just as they were about to part, Collins walked into the pub to make one of his frequent checks on Sean that Jack had ordered in response to the threats. Collins spotted the couple locked in an indecent embrace, kissing in a manner he was sure was illegal even in private. “Oy! Break it up, you two, or I'll charge you with public indecency!”

Jack and Phryne pulled apart slowly. Stunned, Phryne whispered to Jack, “But I wasn't even trying to be indecent!”

“Then it appears you've outdone yourself,” Jack smirked, slowly but firmly removing Phryne's hands from his buttocks. She smiled innocently and shrugged.

When Collins realized who he had just yelled at, he nearly fainted. Jack could see that he was about to apologize (and blow their covers!), so he yelled, “I'd like to see you try it, rozzer!”

Collins caught on immediately. “All right, that's it! You, outside! Now!” he shouted. “That outfit alone is grounds for arrest. What makes you think you can walk around Melbourne dressed like that?!” Jack kissed Phryne, grabbed the pushbike and fled with Collins on his heels.

 

When the two men were outside, Jack quietly ordered Collins to hit him. Collins blanched. “What?!” he asked. Collins' mind was still reeling from accidentally yelling at his boss, not to mention seeing the inspector and Miss Fisher kiss the way they did. He wasn't sure how much more of this day he could take.

“Hit me! Rough me up!” Jack growled. “I need to talk to you, but people are watching, so slam me against the wall.”

Collins complied, shoving Jack into the wall. Jack pointed out the men in the car across the street. He surreptitiously gave Collins the paper with the registration number on it. He told Collins to look into it. He also ordered Collins to keep a discreet presence around Sean's pub at closing time tonight so he could help Phryne, if needed.

“Send Dawson to relieve Beasley, so Beasley can take charge here at the pub tonight,” Jack instructed. “If things go badly, Beasley will know what to do.”

“Are you sure you want Dawson as your backup, sir?” Collins asked. Dawson was new to City South, but not new to the Victoria constabulary. The nephew of the deputy commissioner, Dawson had so far shown a startling lack of interest in police work.

“He's got to learn the job sometime, Collins, and I need you and Beasley here tonight,” Jack replied. “I've got to meet Billy, so hit me, and I will pretend to knock you to the ground and make my escape on the pushbike.”

“What?! No, sir,” Collins argued.

“That's an order, Collins,” Jack growled. “You're about to blow my cover!”

Collins punched Jack in the stomach. Already bent forward from the impact, Jack ran his head into Collins' stomach, knocking him (gently) to the ground. Jack threw his leg over the pushbike and pedaled away. When Collins stood up, he glanced in the direction of the suspicious vehicle, but it was gone.

 


	13. Chapter 13

As closing time approached, Phryne and Sean began preparing for the thugs' return. They closed and locked all rooms except the main bar, they closed and locked all doors except one, and they locked the kitchen so no one could access the knives. They decided to mount their defense from behind the bar, so they moved stacks of ceramic plates behind the bar and added extra racks of bottles and glasses. Phryne wore her dagger and her pearl-handled, gold pistol, just in case. They took their positions and waited.

“Jack looked different today,” Sean teased, failing miserably to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“He looked scrumptious,” Phryne replied.

“I hope you know that you didn't have to perform that scene with him today,” Sean said. “I have never allowed anyone to hassle one of my waitresses.”

“Jack said as much,” she admitted.

“Then why do it?” Sean asked.

“For fun!” Phryne said. “What's the point of going under cover if you can't have a little fun?”

“To catch criminals?” Sean suggested.

“You're as bad as Jack!” Phryne griped. “Who said catching criminals can't be fun?”

“I can see why Jack likes working with you,” Sean said, “aside from your obvious intelligence, I mean.”

“Why is that, do you think?” Phryne asked.

“Because you force him to enjoy himself,” Sean said. “With the things you do and say, Jack cannot help but be at least grudgingly amused.”

“He is not as reluctant to have fun as you think,” Phryne confided. “Did he tell you about the first time he kissed me?”

“Certainly not,” Sean responded.

“We had set up a meeting with a ruthless killer in an elegant French restaurant, and we were waiting for him to walk into our trap,” Phryne began. “I admit that I was distracted, but before I knew what was happening, I found myself being thoroughly, deliciously kissed by one Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“In the middle of the restaurant? Waiting for a murderer?!” Sean asked in disbelief.

“Indeed,” Phryne said.

“What did you do?” Sean asked.

“I kissed him back, naturally!” she said.

“You're both mad!” Sean laughed.

 

When the hoodlums arrived, Phryne picked up a plate, turned it upside down and held it in her hand by the lip. Flicking her wrist, she flung the plate in a spinning motion at them. The plate narrowly missed the head of the first man to enter the pub before it shattered against the wall. “That's far enough!” Phryne shouted. Judging by the cursing that ensued, Phryne and Sean had succeeded in surprising the toughs. When the second man attempted to advance, Sean pelted him with a bottle, successfully whacking him on the forehead and leaving him somewhat dazed. When the men tried to encroach farther into the pub, they were met with a hail of dishes and glassware. Once the thugs finally retreated to positions just inside the door, Phryne and Sean ceased the barrage long enough to make their demand. “We want to meet with your boss,” Phryne yelled across the room. “If he wants us to sell his sly grog and host his book, then he can come discuss it with us like a civilized person.”

“Who the hell are you?” the first thug asked.

“I'm Sean's silent partner,” Phryne replied, “the one who makes all the decisions.”

“Don't sound too silent to me,” the second troublemaker muttered. Phryne glared at him as she stroked the plate in front of her.

“Do we understand each other or would you like to see how well we throw the knives?” Phryne asked. “I worked for a knife thrower in a circus last year, and I learned all kinds–”

“We understand,” the first bully interrupted. “You want to meet the boss.”

“Friday night, 7:00,” Phryne demanded. “We'll be waiting.”

The ruffians left quickly and without further incident.

“That's the easy part done,” Phryne declared.

“The easy part?” Sean asked incredulously.

“Of course. I didn't even muss my hair,” Phryne boasted, playfully mussing her hair with her hand.

“What happens now?” Sean asked.

“Now we leave this mess until morning, and I give you a lift home,” she said. “Bert and Cec are busy following our uninvited guests.”

 

*

 

After more than two weeks of cycling with Billy, Jack couldn't help but notice that his speed had improved. He wasn't as fast as Billy, of course, but he was faster than Jack Robinson usually was. The police car still followed directly behind Billy, with Jack some distance behind, but the gap between the cyclists at the end of the day had decreased substantially. Jack had to admit that he was pleased with his cycling performance.

As he cycled behind the police motorcar, Jack ruminated on the Tom Woods and David Horgan murders. He knew he was missing something. He knew there was more to the murders than cycling. He reviewed the facts of the case, hoping that they would lead to a new clue or line of inquiry. He revisited his interviews, wondering if he had dismissed a theory or account too hastily. As nightfall descended, Jack realized that he had been wrong about one thing. The two murder victims had something in common other than a yellow pushbike and training for the Warrny: the Princes Highway after dark. At night the Princes Highway wasn't just a location, it was an accomplice.

“Damn,” he murmured at the all-too-familiar sound of his bicycle tire popping. He looked up to see if Dawson had noticed his situation, but both Billy and Dawson in the motorcar behind him proceeded unaware. He was alone. Jack was grateful that, prior to meeting Phryne at the pub, he had retrieved an old satchel he employed to carry food on long rides. Tonight that satchel contained, among other things, his torch. Jack pulled out the torch and set about replacing the inner tube and repairing the tire. Before long he was back on the road cycling toward home.

The overcast sky hid even the crescent moon from view. There must be a storm coming, he thought. The murky night reminded him of a story he had read from last year's Tour de France. On a similar night in France, Billy Everett tried to chat with the cyclist he heard next to him. (The sky was so dark he could only hear him, not see him.) Billy made several overtures in his very best French, but the rider was so rude he didn't offer a single response. When Billy insulted the cyclist by saying he obviously lacked the energy to speak, he was shocked to hear the rider growl at him in English to stop his yammering because he didn't understand a word he was saying. He had been unknowingly riding next to his teammate and fellow Australian, Adam Gardner, the entire time. Jack loved that story. Having met both the men involved, he found it even more amusing.

The late hour and dark sky drew Jack's attention to the isolation of the empty highway. When a car passed, he withdrew the small mirror from his jersey pocket and watched it safely into the distance. When a truck passed a while later, Jack followed its progress in the mirror only to see it stop and turn around in the middle of the highway. Jack watched the truck carefully as it rumbled up behind him. He couldn't outrun it, so he didn't try. Instead he maintained his speed and waited to see what would happen. When the truck pulled alongside him, it turned abruptly toward him and forced him off the road into the brush. Even Jack's years of experience as a cyclist couldn't help him avoid all the bushes and shrubs that surrounded him in the darkness. As he flipped over the bicycle's handlebars, he heard the truck door open.

 

*

 

Phryne forgot that she had invited Mac over for a late supper, but she was thrilled when Mr. Butler reminded her of it on her return home. Phryne and Mac indulged in some of Mr. Butler's very best cocktails while they described their days. Phryne delighted in telling Mac all about her adventures as Florence the pub waitress, especially about how she and Sean rebuffed the toughs that night using only plates, bottles and glasses.

When Mr. Butler showed the two friends into the dining room, Mac asked how the Tom Woods case was progressing. Phryne expressed her frustration with the case, which was exacerbated by Jack's undercover assignment. Phryne briefed Mac on recent events surrounding the case, as well as their lack of a convincing suspect or motive. “We're missing something, Mac,” Phryne explained. “I realize that Tom Woods may have been one of the fastest cyclists in the country, but I don't think this case has anything to do with cycling.”

“If not cycling, then what?” Mac asked.

“I don't know yet,” Phryne said.

 

Following supper the ladies were relaxing in the parlor when they heard a knock at the door. Mr. Butler showed Bert and Cec in, and offered the cabbies plates of sandwiches and cocoa while they reported their evening's activities to Miss Fisher. As directed, Bert and Cec followed the two thugs who had harassed Phryne and Sean at the pub. According to Bert and Cec, the ruffians drove all over Melbourne delivering their sly grog to pubs after hours, to jazz clubs and other private clubs, and even to a grocer, a corner store, and a few private residences. “We had been following them for a couple of hours when they must have spotted us because the bloke started driving like a madman,” Bert said.

“I'm sorry, Miss,” Cec said. “We lost them.”

“Well done, both of you, for staying with them as long as you did,” Phryne said. “This gang must have moved into town either very quickly or very quietly for them to be supplying liquor and gambling to so many businesses already.”

“Pardon me, Miss,” Mr. Butler inquired from the doorway, “I was wondering what to do with the Inspector's supper. He said he would be back between eight and nine o'clock, but it's after ten o'clock now.” (Bert and Cec exchanged a furtive look.)

Phryne quickly glanced at the clock, then ran to the telephone, followed quickly by Mac and the others. “What's wrong? Who are you calling?” Mac asked.

“Hugh,” Phryne said. She called the Collins residence, but Hugh was surprised to learn that Jack hadn't returned. She called City South station and then his house, even though she knew he wouldn't be there. Finally, she called Billy and Louise Everett, apologizing profusely for calling so late at night. Louise said that Billy had been home for two hours and was sound asleep.

Phryne called Hugh and reported what Louise Everett told her. “Where is Beasley? Is he missing, too?” she asked.

“Uh, Sergeant Beasley isn't with the inspector tonight, Miss,” Hugh said. “He, uh, had to help me with something.” Hugh knew that his boss would kill him if he told Miss Fisher that the inspector had removed Beasley from his assignment in order to provide unsolicited backup to her.

“If it isn't Beasley, then who is watching him?” Phryne asked.

“Dawson,” Hugh said.

“Dawson?!” Phryne exclaimed. “I wouldn't trust him to guard a fence post! Where is Jack, Hugh?”

“I don't know, Miss,” Hugh said, “I'll, I'll find him.”

Phryne hung up the telephone and grabbed her coat and hat. She trusted Hugh to muster Jack's men and search for him. In the meantime, Phryne, Mac, Bert, Cec, and as many cabbies as they could rouse, drove out to the Princes Highway to search for Jack.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. There will be some injuries in these next chapters, but I want to assure anyone reading that everyone is okay and will be okay.

Jack saw the motorcar headlamps coming toward him on the highway. First there was one car, then another, then a whole line of cars driving down the road. The appearance of so many cars on the highway at this hour was at best anomalous and at worst nefarious, possibly even murderous. Jack wondered if his assailants had returned with reinforcements to finish the job. He concealed himself in the brush and continued slowly making his way toward home.

Cec drove slowly down the highway hoping to find some sign of the inspector while Bert called out the window for him. Jack recognized Bert's voice immediately and stepped out into the open. He turned on the torch he was carrying and waved it back and forth in the hope the cabbies would see him.

“Turn around,” Bert ordered. “I think there's something back there.”

When the light from the car's headlamps found him, Jack was standing along the highway with Billy's broken yellow pushbike at his side. Blood and sweat mingled with dirt and covered the cyclist nearly from head to toe.

“Bloody hell!” Bert said to Cec.

“Whoever did that better hope Miss Fisher doesn't find him,” Cec replied.

“Evenin', Inspector,” Bert greeted. “It's a bit late to be out in the back o' beyond.”

“Evening, Albert, Cecil,” Jack replied. “It's very good to see you.”

“You're a sight for sore eyes, Inspector,” Cec said. Bert helped Jack to the cab, while Cec sounded the car horn to alert the others that they had found him.

“Do you have an old rag I can use to cover the seat?” Jack asked apologetically. “I'm filthy.”

Bert laid out an old cloth they kept in the cab for those occasions when Cec picked up a stray dog or cat.

No sooner had Jack sat down when Bert warned, “Straighten up, Inspector, here comes Miss Fisher.”

Jack was not looking forward to this. He hated that he had caused Phryne to worry, and judging by all the people she brought out searching for him, Phryne had definitely worried.

Jack got out of the cab as Phryne's car pulled up. Phryne gasped when her motorcar's beams illuminated him. Jack put his hands up defensively. “I'm fine, Phryne,” he said calmly. “I realize that I must look a sight, but I'm all right. Really. This is mostly dirt.”

Phryne ran to Jack to wrap her arms around him, relieved that he had been found, relieved that he was alive.

“Oof,” Jack said, as Phryne made contact and he fought to remain conscious.

“Jack?!” Phryne cried.

“I'm fine,” he said, when he could speak.

“Mac?” Phryne queried.

“He's _mostly_ fine,” Mac diagnosed quickly.

“Define mostly,” Phryne said.

“Aside from the bruising, swelling and abrasions, I count five severe lacerations requiring sutures, and one, no two,” Mac said, as she poked a finger into Jack's ribs causing him to nearly pass out, “yes, two broken ribs. And, as you can see, he's lost a lot of blood. I'll know more when we get him home.”

As Mac walked back to the car, she noticed the bicycle and said, “That looks familiar.”

“It's the same pushbike Tom Woods was riding,” Jack replied.

“No, I mean the condition of the wheels and handlebars,” she said. “It looks the same as it did at the crime scene.”

 

*

 

She waited until after his wounds were treated, after he bathed, and after he ate the meal that Mr. Butler had so diligently kept warm for him. When it was just the two of them lying in bed together and she could look into his eyes, touch his face, and feel his arms wrapped around her, she asked him what happened.

He told her about the truck and the two men who forced him off the road. He told her about hitting a tree, coming off his bicycle, and grabbing the bicycle tire pump so it couldn't be used as a weapon against him. He told her about fighting the men who pursued him, and giving as good as he got until, startled by an approaching car, his attackers retreated. He told her about never in his life wanting so much to live. Never in his life having so much to live for. Never in his life feeling so alive. Thanks to her.

 

*

 

Mac had ordered bed rest for the day, so Jack went to his office early that morning. He was only there a short while before Phryne barged into the room demanding to know why he was out of bed. “Good morning,” he greeted. She walked over to him and sat in front of him on his desk. “I'm fine,” he reassured her. She gave him an appraising look and decided he was telling the truth.

“I have news on the car that was parked in front of the pub yesterday,” he said, picking up the file lying next to Phryne. “It belongs to one Gordon McEwan, a gang leader in Geelong who has several offenses for gambling and selling sly grog there. Before today no one knew he had expanded his operation into Melbourne. The officers in Geelong said they suspect him of several violent crimes, but they have been unable to bring charges against him because the victims refuse to come forward.”

“That sounds familiar,” Phryne said.

Collins knocked on the door. “Dawson is here, sir,” he announced.

“Thank you, Collins,” Jack said. “Send him in.” Phryne removed herself from Jack's desk and took her seat in the visitor's chair.

When Constable Dawson stepped into the office, Jack noticed that he was sporting a black eye. Jack apologized to the constable and asked him to wait outside for just a moment while he had another word with Miss Fisher.

“Phryne,” he said in a half-warning, half-inquiring tone reminiscent of a headmaster to his most troublesome pupil.

“It wasn't me, Jack,” she said.

Jack rose from his chair, walked around his desk and stood in front of Phryne, taking her hand in his. “You know how I feel about you,” he began. “And you know I admire what a champion you are for those you care about. I love how fierce you are, truly, but I cannot allow you to beat up my men.”

“It was one punch thrown at one man. And it wasn't me,” she insisted.

“These men are officers of the law, Phryne. No matter how much you may feel Dawson deserves it, you cannot hit him.”

“It wasn't me,” she repeated.

“I agree that Dawson should not have abandoned his post and disregarded my safety,” Jack continued, “and, believe me, I will address that, but everything turned out all right. I'm fine.”

“Don't you dare trivialize this, Jack,” Phryne argued. “Those men could have killed you. But it wasn't me. I did not give Dawson the black eye. I was too busy trying to find you.”

“Really?” he asked quietly, trying to divine the answer in her eyes. She nodded and a small smile formed on his face. He kissed the hand he was holding. “Collins!” Jack called through the closed door and the senior constable appeared.

“Hugh, what have you done to your hand?” Phryne asked. “You should have Mac look at that to make sure you didn't break anything.”

“It's fine, Miss,” Collins said.

“That's not from our scuffle outside the pub yesterday, is it, Hugh?” Jack asked. “If so, I apologize.”

“No, sir,” Collins replied. “It's from punching Dawson. I know I will face disciplinary action, and I am prepared to suffer the consequences.”

Jack was taken aback. “What happened?” he asked.

Collins told Jack that he confronted Dawson about leaving the inspector unprotected. Collins said that Dawson told him it was an accident, but that maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if they had someone new in charge of City South.

“Is that when you hit him, Hugh?” Phryne asked.

“No, Miss,” he replied.

Collins reported that Dawson said the inspector made their station a laughing stock by working with Miss Fisher.

“Is that when you slugged him?” Phryne asked.

“No, Miss,” he replied.

Collins said that Dawson accused him of being Miss Fisher's lap dog.

“That's when you clocked him, right Hugh?” Phryne asked. Jack gave her a warning look.

“No, Miss,” he said. “It was after that, when he insulted Dottie.” Phryne and Jack shared a shocked look between them. Neither of them could imagine anyone saying anything bad to or about Mrs. Dorothy Collins.

“Oh! So it's not a police matter at all,” Jack said. “Were there any witnesses to Constable Dawson's unfortunate accident?”

“Uh, no sir,” Hugh replied.

“Good. That will be all, Collins,” Jack said. “Send Dawson in, and then go see Doctor MacMillan about that hand. That's an order, Hugh.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, again. This chapter contains an injury. I want to assure anyone reading this story that everyone and everything are okay. The injury is merely a pathetic device to add more Mac to my story.

“Hello?” Dorothy Collins called, as she stood in the City South Police Station lobby.

Jack came out of his office and greeted her, “Mrs. Collins, how lovely to see you this morning.”

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said, determinedly ignoring the bruises on his face and the sutures that were visible at his hairline. “I didn't mean to disturb you; I was looking for Hugh.”

“You're not disturbing me at all,” he said. “I sent Hugh to see Doctor MacMillan because his hand looked swollen, and I wanted the doctor to make sure he hadn't broken anything. It's nothing at all to worry about. He will be back soon.”

“Oh,” she said, processing the information and deciding not to worry.

“Perhaps I can help?” he asked.

“I wouldn't want to bother you with this, Inspector,” she said. “Miss Fisher asked me to compare this photograph to victim photographs from suspicious deaths and unsolved murder cases for the past three years.”

“That will take some time,” he said. “Why don't we set you up in my office where you will be comfortable. Will that be all right?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but please don't go to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all. I'm only doing paperwork, and I welcome the company,” he said. “Do we know the name of the man in the photograph?” Jack asked.

“Yes, it's Jimmy Willoughby,” she replied.

“Jimmy Willoughby?” he asked. “Where did you find a photograph of him? We couldn't find one anywhere. He had no next of kin, and his possessions were given away years ago.”

“The League of Victorian Wheelmen had a photograph of him because he placed third in the Warrnambool race three years ago,” Dottie reported.

“Excellent work, Mrs. Collins,” he smiled.

“It was Miss Fisher who found the photograph,” she corrected.

“And Miss Fisher thinks Mr. Willoughby is deceased?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I had Hugh check with Hatch, Match and Dispatch, and they had no record of his death,” he said. “But if the body was never identified, he could very well be in those files. And that would certainly explain some things.”

 

Jack and Dottie worked in companionable silence on opposite sides of his desk. A records check of Geelong gang leader Gordon McEwan's known aliases turned up a recently purchased warehouse in Melbourne, so Jack filled out all the paperwork necessary to launch a raid on that property. Dottie meanwhile slowly and methodically matched Jimmy Willoughby's photograph against those of the victims in the files.

“It's him!” Dot exclaimed. “It's Jimmy Willoughby!”

She showed the file to Jack, who confirmed her discovery. “Well done, Mrs. Collins!” he said.

Jack read the file and discovered that Jimmy Willoughby's body had been found along the Princes Highway three years ago. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. The victim had no identification. There was no indication of a bicycle being found at the scene or of the victim being a cyclist.

 

Hugh Collins returned from his appointment with Mac and walked toward the inspector's office to report for duty. He paused briefly when he saw his wife sitting in his boss's office drinking tea. Taking in the stacks of papers and files that surrounded them, Hugh asked, “Hi, Dottie. What are you doing here?”

“How did it go with the doctor, Hugh?” Jack asked.

“Fine, sir, no breaks,” he replied.

“That's good news,” Jack said. “While you were out, the very clever Mrs. Collins found Jimmy Willoughby. We're celebrating with a cup of tea.”

“How?” Hugh asked.

“He was a murder victim three years ago,” Dottie replied.

“But–” Hugh began.

“I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you all about it when you take her out to lunch,” Jack said.

“Yes, sir,” Hugh replied. “Uh, sir?”

“Yes, Hugh,” Jack replied.

“Doctor MacMillan asked me to deliver a message to you, sir,” Hugh said with some trepidation.

Jack realized almost immediately after sending Hugh to see Mac that he would be in trouble with the good doctor. “I'm sure that won't be necessary, Hugh,” he dismissed. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“She made me write it down, sir,” Hugh said, “and she made me promise to deliver it.”

“Very well then, Collins,” Jack sighed.

Hugh took out his notebook and began to read. “Inspector, I did not order bed rest unnecessarily. Your disregard of my orders could cause me to doubt my proficiency as a doctor. For instance, I might develop misgivings about the sutures I sewed into you last night, and feel morally obliged to remove them and begin the process again.” Jack's hands subconsciously drifted to his wounds. Hugh looked up from the small book. “She wouldn't really do that, would she, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, I believe she might,” Jack said, suddenly feeling queasy.

“Were there a lot of stitches, sir?” Hugh asked.

“Yes, Hugh, there were a lot of stitches,” he replied.

“This new-found insecurity might further compel me,” Hugh read, “to become relentless in ensuring you receive ample rest, even to the point of admitting you to hospital.”

“Message received, Hugh,” Jack said, as he rose from his chair and collected his hat and coat.

“But there's more, sir,” Hugh said.

“I'm sure there is, but it won't be necessary,” Jack replied. “I'm going home to rest.”

 

*

 

Phryne arrived at the pub just in time for opening. She had sent Bert and Cec there hours earlier to clean up the broken glass and install the replacement dishes and glassware she bought. When Sean arrived for work, the pub looked as good as new.

 

Phryne told Sean about the attack on Jack, and she assured him that Jack was all right. Then she told Sean what she learned about the gang leader they were up against. Even though they demanded to meet him on Friday, Phryne knew McEwan would likely come before then in order to catch them off guard. She wanted Sean to be prepared.

 

About 20 minutes before closing, officers Beasley, Collins, Abbot and Foster entered the pub in civilian attire. They ordered drinks and casually made their way to the back rooms to wait for closing. Then, about five minutes before closing, Jack walked through the doors, followed almost immediately by the two hoodlums from the night before and presumably their boss.

Jack briefly made eye contact with Sean to let him know he was all right. Sean tried not to react to the sight of Jack's battered face. Jack assumed the thugs would remember him from yesterday, so he walked up to Phryne and kissed her soundly. “I'll be ready in a few minutes, lover,” she purred.

“Take your time,” he replied, “I'm thirsty tonight.”

As Jack took a seat at the bar, one of the thugs asked, “What happened to you?”

“I had a disagreement,” Jack replied.

“About what?” the thug asked.

“About people asking me questions,” he muttered. The tough returned his attention to his drink.

 

At closing time Sean kicked everyone out of the pub except Jack, Phryne and the policemen concealed in the back rooms. When Sean told the ruffians it was time to leave, the man who accompanied them finally spoke. He introduced himself as Gordon McEwan and said he was there to discuss business. Sean opened his mouth to speak, but Phryne cut him off. “If you have any business to discuss, you'll be talking to me,” she said. “I'm Sean's partner, and I make all the decisions about this pub.” Phryne was purposely trying to draw McEwan's ire, intentionally trying to goad him into saying or doing something for which they could arrest him.

“I don't do business with women,” McEwan said.

“Then you won't do business here,” Phryne replied.

“I do business anywhere I please,” McEwan countered.

“Not here,” she repeated. “We've never dealt with gangs, and we won't start now.”

“You never dealt with a gang like mine before,” McEwan snarled. “If you want to keep this pub, you will do as you're told.”

“Or else what?” Phryne asked.

“Or else you or your pub might have an accident,” he said.

“Is that a threat?” she asked.

McEwan's increasingly menacing tone and posture upset Fang, who had been actively watching from his spot at the end of the bar. Fang stilled and began to growl at McEwan.

“Heel your bitch, Murphy, or I'll have to put her down,” McEwan gnarled.

“Fang's not a bitch, he's a dog, and don't even think about hurting him,” Sean replied.

“I wasn't talking about the dog,” the McEwan growled.

Sean gasped. “Now look here!” Sean began, but Phryne silenced him with a touch to his arm.

“It's been an enlightening conversation, Mr. McEwan,” Phryne said. “We will not do business with your gang. If you or your associates set foot in this pub again, we will call the police.”

“We'll see about that, bitch,” he said. McEwan drew his gun, and Jack tackled him, crashing them both to the floor. Phryne held off the other two thugs with her pistol while the policemen from the back rooms rushed in to help. Jack and McEwan scrambled for the gun, and it discharged.

 

*

 

“Mac!” Phryne called. Spying her friend through the window in her office, Phryne cried, “Thank goodness you're still here! We need your help desperately!”

“That's a dog,” Mac said, pointing to the injured animal in Cec's arms.

“His name is Fang,” Phryne offered.

“Still a dog,” Mac said. “I'm a doctor, Phryne, not a veterinarian.”

“This is Sean, Fang's owner,” Phryne continued. “He's Jack's best friend.”

“Sean,” Mac nodded a greeting, then to the cabbies, “Bert, Cec.”

“Please, Mac, he's been shot,” Phryne pleaded, as Cec carefully placed the dog on the examination table. “You know we won't find a veterinarian to help at this hour. Fang took a bullet for me, Mac.”

“Phryne, you know I love animals, but do you have any idea how much trouble I would be in if I attempted to treat an animal?” Mac asked, running her hands over the dog trying to locate the bullet. “Aren't there any veterinary boards your Aunt Prudence can strong-arm into submission?”

Sean pulled Phryne aside. “Are you sure about this, Phryne?” he whispered. “She doesn't sound very happy, and I would hate for her to get into trouble.”

“Don't worry,” Phryne replied. “Mac grumbles because it makes her feel better to put up a fight before she does what I ask.”

“Why would she risk her career to help us?” Sean asked.

“First, because she's my oldest and dearest friend, and second, because what I ask her to do is usually something she would do of her own volition if she weren't being so responsible.”

“Nurse Fisher, are you going to assist me with this operation, or do I have to do everything myself?” Mac asked.

“Coming, Mac,” Phryne replied.

 

*

 

It was nearly midnight when Jack returned to Wardlow after locking McEwan and his cohorts in the cells, taking statements, and completing preliminary paperwork. He would never admit it to Mac, but she was right about the need for bed rest. He hadn't felt this exhausted since the war. When he opened the door to Phryne's boudoir, the table lamp was lit, Phryne was asleep in bed, and Fang was wrapped in an enormous pile of soft blankets on the floor beside the bed. Jack was relieved that Fang was all right. He crouched down and pet the dog gingerly.

Phryne stirred when Jack climbed into bed, and he asked, “Why is Fang here?”

“Mac made me promise to take him to a veterinarian tomorrow,” Phryne replied. “She said he needs to limit his movement for the next week or so. He can't go up or down stairs, so you will have to carry him outside to do his business.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to let him sleep downstairs?” he asked.

“You wouldn't want me to leave him downstairs by himself, would you?” she asked. “After the night he's had, he needs to be with people he trusts.”

Jack loved how Phryne cared so deeply about everyone and everything who entered her world. He was grateful that he was one of them.


	16. Chapter 16

Morning came entirely too early for the detectives. Jack was not only amenable to the idea of bed rest today, he was downright enthusiastic about it. However, he planned to raid McEwan's Melbourne warehouse this morning, and it wouldn't set a very good example for his men if he didn't show up. Besides, since McEwan was her case, Jack had promised Phryne that she could attend the raid.

The seizure went according to plan, no doubt aided by the presence of McEwan and a couple of his cohorts in the City South cells at the time. Jack and Phryne soon found themselves standing inside a vast warehouse brimming with sly grog. If the considerable quantities of illegal alcohol were any indication, Gordon McEwan was planning to take over the sly grog racket for all of Melbourne. Unfortunately for McEwan, the sly grog was now in the custody of the Victoria Police.

As they watched the constables finish rounding up the criminals in the warehouse, Phryne pointed to two men with bruises on their hands and faces. “They look like they were involved in a serious fight recently,” she noted.

Jack knew what she was thinking. “They're gang ruffians, Phryne, standover men,” he said. “They probably look like that half their lives. I'm not the only man in Melbourne who was assaulted recently.”

After supervising the confiscation of the alcohol and the gang member processing back at City South, Jack determined that he really did need to go back to bed. He hoped he wouldn't be in too much trouble with his superiors for raiding the warehouse while he was supposed to be solving Tom Woods' murder.

 

*

 

When Mr. Butler heard Phryne returning to Wardlow, he hurried to intercept her at the front door. He signaled to her to be quiet and pointed to the parlor. Phryne entered the parlor and saw Jack lying on the floor asleep next to Fang. She crept upstairs and brought back blankets, pillows, and her camera. She took a picture of Jack and Fang, sleeping side by side, each with his stitches and bandages. "Heroes in repose," she said to herself. Then she lay down and cuddled up to Jack. She was asleep within minutes.

 

*

 

Jack received a visit from McEwan's Geelong attorney the next morning demanding his client's release. The counselor said McEwan didn't own a weapon, so the police or the pub owners must have stitched him up. McEwan disavowed any threats attributed to him; on the contrary, McEwan claimed he was the one under threat from the owner's feral dog. Finally, McEwan denied ownership of the Melbourne warehouse and its contents – his business is located in Geelong. The attorney's protests were not unexpected, but they worried Jack. If he and Phryne couldn't make a case against McEwan, Sean would be in greater danger than before.

Phryne and Jack decided to let McEwan wait a while longer before interrogating him. Instead they interviewed the gang members they had apprehended at the warehouse to learn everything they could about McEwan and his activities. From what they could piece together from police in Geelong and gang member statements, McEwan became a gang leader in Geelong a few years ago after the previous local gang leader moved out of town and left a void in the criminal hierarchy. McEwan made a lot of money quickly, which was possible to do running sly grog and gambling. Over the past several months, McEwan began to expand his operation into Melbourne, setting up sly grog shops; providing sly grog to grocers, corner stores, and even some private residences; and coercing publicans of licensed pubs and hotels to sell his inferior product and host his gambling. McEwan's plan was to quietly take over as much business as he could before the Melbourne gangs found out who he was or what he was doing.

By day's end they had questioned all the gang members except the two Phryne had pointed out the day before at the warehouse. Phryne noticed that Jack seemed somewhat distracted all day, so she suggested that they delay interviewing the last two criminals until morning when the detectives would be sharper and better prepared. Driving to Wardlow that night she learned the reason for Jack's unusual lack of focus. “I have to take the train tomorrow,” Jack said.

“What train? Where?” she asked.

“The train to Warrnambool,” he replied. “If I have to race on Saturday, and it appears I do, then I have to take the train tomorrow.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Jack,” she said. “You're in no fit state to ride in the Warrny.”

“I may not be, but the commissioner hasn't released me from my assignment,” Jack said.

“What do you mean he hasn't released you? Has he told you since the attack that he still expects you to race in the Warrny?” she asked.

“No, I haven't heard from him at all since the attack,” he said. “I tried to reach him yesterday and today, but he was out of the office.”

“He cannot possibly expect you to ride in that race on Saturday,” she said. “I'm sure he just forgot to tell you.”

“You don't understand, Phryne,” Jack said. “The commissioner gave me this assignment, so he has to release me from it. I cannot simply decide not to go – that would be dereliction. I've been off the pushbike for the past few days because of Mac's ordered bed rest, but I'm back to full duty tomorrow, which I'm sure the commissioner knows.”

“There's got to be a way around it,” she said.

“There isn't,” he replied. “I've run out of time and options.”

 

*

 

After watching Jack board the train to Warrnambool, Phryne decided she needed to distract herself with an investigation. She knew she would drive herself mad if she spent one more moment thinking about Jack cycling 165 miles back to Melbourne on the Princes Highway after nearly being killed there less than a week ago.

“Dot, would you like to go to Geelong with me today?” Phryne asked.

“Of course, Miss,” Dot replied. She thought it would be best to keep Miss Fisher's mind off the inspector's big race. If it were her husband Hugh in the race, Dot knew she would be terribly worried. “What are we looking for in Geelong?”

“A history lesson, I hope, Dot,” Phryne said.

Unfortunately for Dot, Phryne's anxiety was evident in her driving. Dot was unaware that a car could travel that fast without leaving the ground. Nevertheless, they arrived in Geelong unscathed, if a little shaken. Phryne decided to stop first at the Geelong police station for information.

 

“Phryne Fisher, did you say?” Victoria Police Inspector Kent inquired, “from Melbourne?”

“Yes,” she replied, handing him her card.

“We've been expecting you,” Inspector Kent said.

“Expecting me?” Phryne asked.

“Yes, Inspector Robinson called me yesterday and told me to expect your visit,” Kent said.

“That man knows me entirely too well,” Phryne whispered to Dot, although without the note of annoyance one would normally expect to accompany such a statement. Then, to the policeman, she asked somewhat nervously, “And what did Inspector Robinson suggest you do with me when I arrived?”

“He asked us to show you whatever courtesy we would normally extend to him,” Kent said. “We've been working with him on the cyclist murders, and we know about his unenviable undercover assignment. He said you have been doing some legwork for him while he was riding the pushbike.”

Well that's a relief, Phryne thought. She asked Inspector Kent to tell her everything he could about gang leader Gordon McEwan. Phryne and Dot spent the afternoon rummaging through all the files the Geelong station held regarding McEwan and his operation. Phryne also asked about McEwan's predecessor, Thommo Hawkins, and the transition between the two leaders. “So if I understand this correctly,” Phryne said, “Thommo Hawkins, a well-liked, successful, unrivaled gang leader moved out of town without a word to his extended family who lived in the area or the gang members who worked for him. He chose as his successor Gordon McEwan, who was at the time one of many mid-level gang members.”

“Don't forget his house, Miss,” Dot said.

“Thank you, Dot,” Phryne said. “When he departed, Hawkins apparently also gave his rather large house to Gordon McEwan, as there is no record of a sale.”

“When you put it like that, Miss Fisher, it sounds suspicious,” Kent said.

“It does indeed,” she replied.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that chapters 16 and 17 were added today. Enjoy!

Jack was able to sleep for a while on the train. When he arrived in Warrnambool and checked in with the League of Victorian Wheelmen, Jack learned that he would be starting, not in the last group as he thought, but in the first group. He didn't understand how that could have happened, but at least now the hours of pain he knew awaited him wouldn't be futile. He may not see Billy once they started, but at least he wouldn't be pushing off two hours behind him.

 

As the cyclists in the first group gathered for the 3:00 a.m. start, Jack searched among the competitors for yellow bicycles. If the Woods and Horgan murders were cases of mistaken identity, which by now he firmly believed, then perhaps the killers' real target was in this crowd. He spotted only one pushbike that was solid yellow like the one he was riding. Its owner had brown curly hair, brown eyes, and looked enough like Woods and Horgan to be mistaken for them at a distance.

“Hi, I'm Jack Robinson,” he said. “That's a nice pushbike.”

“Thanks. Ronnie Marshall,” the cyclist replied, shaking Jack's hand. “Are you all right, mate? No offense, but you look like you've fallen off your pushbike one too many times already. Are you sure you're up for this?”

Jack chuckled. “I must look like Frankenstein's monster,” he replied. “My doctor warned me that if I come off the pushbike again, there won't be enough thread in all Australia to sew me up.”

Ronnie laughed. “What happened to you? I can see the lacerations, abrasions, and some of the contusions coming from a fall, but that doesn't explain the black eye or the damage to your knuckles,” he said. “Those are the telltale signs of a fight.”

“You sound like a doctor,” Jack noted. “And you wouldn't believe me if I told you what happened.”

“That's because I am a doctor back in Melbourne,” he replied. “Come now, tell me what happened.”

“A doctor?!” Jack exclaimed. “Why are you racing in the Warrny?”

“Because I love cycling,” Ronnie said. “A group of us ride during our off hours and occasionally do some touring. And you're avoiding my question.”

“All right” Jack said. “I was training for the race on the Princes Highway when I was forced off the road by a truck whose occupants then tried to kill me.”

“You may not believe this, Jack, but something like that happened to me a month ago,” Ronnie replied. “I was too frightened to ride on the Princes Highway at night after that, so I've been staying with my sister in Sydney since then.”

Jack became deadly serious and said, “I realize the race will begin soon, but would you tell me more about what happened to you? Can you remember anything about it?”

“It was strange,” Ronnie said. “I was cycling on the Princes Highway late at night, and I passed a truck that was pulled off to the side of the road. A couple of guys were standing nearby out in the middle of nowhere. I was tired after a long ride, so I didn't give it much thought. Then all of a sudden they were chasing me in their truck! They forced me off the road. I hit a branch or something and fell off the bicycle. They got out of the truck and ran after me. That's when a car came up behind them. The driver saw what was happening and sounded his horn. The guys ran back to the truck and sped away. The motorcar driver asked if I was all right and gave me a lift home.”

“Ronnie, I need you to recount that story for me when we get back to Melbourne,” Jack said. He discreetly retrieved his police credentials from his jersey pocket and explained that he was under cover trying to solve the murders of two cyclists on yellow pushbikes. “One more thing, I realize that it happened at night, but is there any way possible that you could identify the men who attacked you?”

“I'll be happy to make a formal statement to the police,” Ronnie said, “and yes, I can identify them. I got a good look at them when the motorcar approached, and so did the driver of the car.”

“Thank you,” Jack replied. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to keep an eye on you during the race to make sure nothing happens to you.”

“That's all right,” Ronnie replied. “With those injuries of yours, I'm going to have to stay close to make sure nothing happens to _you_.”

 

Finally this case made sense! Now that he knew what happened, Jack had to find Billy.

“Billy, I'm sorry to disturb you right now,” Jack began.

“Jack! Good God, man! You should be at home in bed!” Billy exclaimed, surveying Jack's wounds. “Sergeant Beasley told me what happened to you. You're not really planning to race today, are you?”

“I'm all right,” Jack said. “I just found out why Mr. Woods was killed, and I wanted you to know that it had absolutely nothing to do with you. The killers weren't trying to murder you or Mr. Woods. They were looking for someone else and mistook Mr. Woods for him. It wasn't your fault, Billy. Good luck with the race today.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Billy said. “You can't imagine what that means to me.”

Jack knew that Billy felt guilty about Tom Woods' death, and he hoped the news would bring him some peace of mind. He hoped it would ease his burden a little on the impossibly long ride ahead of him.

 

*

 

As he sped toward the finish line on Ballarat Road in Albion, Jack was filled with relief. Billy and Ronnie were safe, no cyclist had been murdered, and he finally understood the Tom Woods murder case. Once he finished the race, Jack wondered how he would find Phryne in a crowd of 25,000 people and safely extricate Ronnie from the scene. “Oof!” he said, as he was nearly tackled by a blur with shiny black hair.

Jack gratefully accepted Phryne's enthusiastic welcome and Sean's sincere congratulations. Then he told them what he learned from Ronnie before the race. He looked for his men, who he knew were assigned to work the area around the finish line. He called to Beasley, and directed him to drive Ronnie home. He ordered Beasley to protect Ronnie Marshall, explaining that he was a vitally important witness.

Phryne, Jack and Sean were walking toward Phryne's beautiful Hispano-Suiza motorcar when they heard, “Robinson!” Neither Jack nor Phryne needed to turn around to know who owned that voice.

“Commissioner!” Jack tried to respond cheerfully.

“Is this your idea of taking time off to recover?!” Chief Commissioner Calder demanded.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Jack asked. Phryne and Sean continued on to the car and let Jack consult with his boss.

“I released you from your cycling assignment the day after the attempt was made on your life,” the commissioner said. “And I ordered you to take time off to recover from your injuries. I want to see you first thing Monday, Robinson, and by then you'd better have a good reason for disobeying my orders.”

“I didn't know, sir. That information was never relayed to me,” Jack said. “I would have been happy to hear it.”

“What do you mean you didn't know? I received a call from an irate Doctor MacMillan the morning after you were assaulted,” Calder explained. “She reported your condition in excruciating detail, and said I would be irresponsible to place you back on the street, let alone back on that bicycle, any time soon. I tried to reach you at the station that afternoon, but you had gone home. I left word with your constable that you were released from your undercover assignment and that you should take a few days off to rest.”

“I was never told you called, sir. It's not like Collins to forget to tell me something like that,” Jack said. “I don't know what happened, but I'll look into it.”

“It wasn't Collins,” Calder said. “I know young Hugh's voice by now, and he wasn't the officer who took my message.” The commissioner looked through the crowd and saw the senior constable nearby. He waved Collins over to join them. “Collins, who relieved you at the front desk the day after the Inspector was attacked?”

“I was called out to assist with a disturbance in the afternoon, so Constable Dawson took over the counter, sir,” Collins replied.

“Apart from releasing me from the cycling assignment and telling me to take time off to recover, did you communicate anything else in that message, sir?” Jack asked the commissioner.

“Yes, I told you to take swift and severe disciplinary action against whatever officer was in that police motorcar and failed to pick you up after following Billy Everett to his home,” Calder said.

“I see,” Jack said. “Sir, the officer who took your message was the same officer who was in the motorcar when I was attacked: Constable Dawson. I didn't want him to endanger my men, so I restricted him to station duties until I could find a solution for him.”

“I owe you an apology, Robinson,” Calder said. “You shouldn't have been put through that ordeal today. You and I will discuss what to do with Dawson after you have had a chance to rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

“Oh, and Robinson,” the commissioner said, “good race.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack replied.

“Now get some rest – you look like hell,” the commissioner said.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

As soon as the commissioner walked away, Collins asked, “Sir, did I hear that correctly? Did you not have to race today?”

“Apparently not, Hugh,” Jack sighed, “but Dawson never gave me the commissioner's message that told me so.” Jack could see that Collins was becoming angry and added, “I want you to stay well away from Dawson, Collins. That's an order. Dawson is the deputy commissioner's nephew. He is not worth ruining your career. Let the commissioner deal with Dawson – he can hurt him far worse than you or I could. And, Hugh, not one word of this to Miss Fisher!”

“Yes sir,” Collins replied.

Jack thought it was best not to tell Phryne that he had just raced 165 miles unnecessarily because of Dawson.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I became concerned that I wasn't being as obvious as I thought, so I reworked this chapter a bit. I hope it helps.

Jack went to the station early on Monday. He was more determined than ever to solve the Tom Woods murder case. Jack knew when Ronnie Marshall described his attack that Ronnie must have witnessed something, or at least the murderers thought he had. Something worth killing for. Jack searched the missing persons file for any disappearances that occurred at the time of Ronnie's attack. He also reviewed suspicious deaths and murder cases from that time.

“Sir, I think you might want to see this,” Collins said, as he walked into the inspector's office. “That photographer, Frederick Burn, has been at it again. He snapped a picture of you and Miss Fisher at the cycling race.”

Jack looked at the newspaper Collins handed him and saw a photograph of himself and Phryne embracing after the race. He read the caption: “HOW ARRESTING! Is this the new Victoria police uniform? The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher appears to approve! The scantily clad copper she's caressing is City South's Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.” He groaned. There was absolutely nothing he could say that would explain away that photograph. He dreaded the telephone call from the commissioner.

“Why the long face, Jack?” Phryne asked as she walked briskly through Jack's office and sat atop his desk. “I'm having my copy framed and hung in the parlor.”

“You know perfectly well why, Miss Fisher,” he said, standing to steal a kiss. “The commissioner will have my warrant card.”

“Don't be silly, Jack, you shouldn't even have been there,” she said. “Tell him you were exhausted and I was holding you up.”

“By my arse?” he asked incredulously.

“Needs must,” she shrugged. He smirked.

Phryne was fondling something around her neck. Jack smiled when he glimpsed what it was. “That's an interesting necklace you're wearing,” he said.

“Isn't it?” she asked. “I found it on my bedside table this morning. I'm not usually one for medallions, but I'm rather fond of this one.”

Jack reached out to touch his time medallion from the Warrnambool cycling race hanging from a silk ribbon around Phryne's neck.

“Nobody tells me anything!” Mac said as she stormed into Jack's office, medical bag in hand. “I just found out that you rode in that bloody race on Saturday. The only reason I know is because a colleague at the hospital told me about the policeman he chased for the entire race out of fear the man would come apart at the seams, or sutures as the case may be.”

“Hi, Mac!” Phryne greeted. “Did you see Jack and me in the newspaper this morning?” She proudly held up Jack's newspaper to show Mac the photograph. Mac raised an eyebrow at Phryne.

“Doctor, I can explain,” Jack began.

“Are you all right?” Mac asked, looking him over with a critical eye. Turning to Phryne, Mac asked, “Did you examine the stitches to make sure they're still intact? Doctor Marshall said he was racing like a man possessed on Saturday, giving no consideration to the sutures that were holding him together.”

“I did, Mac,” Phryne assured her friend, “I checked them very carefully after the race, and your stitches held beautifully.”

“I wasn't racing like a madman,” Jack interjected, “I was trying to keep an eye on Billy.”

“What were you doing in that race?” Mac asked.

“It wasn't his fault, Mac,” Phryne said. “The commissioner released him from his assignment, but Constable Dawson didn't give Jack the message.”

“How do you know that?” Jack asked. Phryne rolled her eyes.

“The same Dawson who wasn't there when the Inspector was attacked?” Mac asked. Phryne nodded. “Is he still alive?”

 

Meanwhile, in the lobby of the City South Police Station, Chief Commissioner Calder, newspaper in hand, was marching toward Jack's office. “Uh, I wouldn't go in there right now, sir,” Collins suggested.

“Don't be impertinent, Collins,” Calder said. “I'll see my men when I please.”

“Yes, sir, but Doctor MacMillan is in there, and she just found out that the Inspector raced on Saturday, sir,” Collins replied.

The commissioner stopped. “Damn that woman, meddling in police business,” Calder said. “It's bad enough with Miss Fisher interfering. What is she doing in there?”

“I don't know, sir,” Collins said, “but she has her medical bag with her.”

“That woman may be the best coroner we've ever had, but she is damned unnerving,” the commissioner said, as he retreated out of the station.

 

*

 

Ronnie Marshall gave a detailed formal statement of the attack he suffered while cycling on the Princes Highway. The motorist who rescued him corroborated Ronnie's account. He didn't see what led to the attack, but he witnessed the two men set upon Ronnie. After providing their statements, the eyewitnesses met with the police sketch artist to produce drawings of the two suspects.

 

“Take a look at this,” Jack said, handing Phryne the missing persons file of Lawrence Curtis, barkeep from Geelong, who disappeared on the same night as Ronnie's attack.

“Now that is interesting,” she said.

“Sir, the artist's sketches are ready,” Collins announced.

“Excellent, Collins,” Jack said. “Let's have a look.”

“Well, well,” Phryne said, as she examined the sketches. “I think it's time we had a talk with those boys, don't you?”

 

Richard Knott and Horrie Scanlan have been hoodlums for most of their lives. They worked first for Hawkins and then McEwan. According to the other gang members, McEwan rarely went anywhere without Knott and Scanlan at his side.

Knott was the older of the two by about 10 years. He was a tall, barrel-chested man with long, muscular arms. His face wore the signs of a man who made his living violently: a nose that was broken more than once, a curved scar on his cheek that could have been made by a bottle, and a long straight scar that ran along his jaw. These marks were recently augmented by a black eye, a cut over the other eye, and considerable swelling.

Scanlan was young and brash, eager to show who was boss. He was every bit as muscular as Knott, but not nearly as clever. He had a black eye, too.

The detectives began their questioning with Scanlan. They made only a cursory mention of the offenses for which the hoodlum was arrested at the warehouse – they knew those charges would stick. Instead they focused their interrogation on the murders of Tom Woods and David Horgan, and the attempted murders of Ronnie Marshall and Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.

“You're not very good at your job, are you Horrie?” Phryne asked.

“I do all right,” he said with unmistakable arrogance.

“I don't think so,” she said. “You not only didn't kill the man you set out to kill, you murdered two people who knew nothing about you. Then you tried to murder another man. A policeman. A Senior Detective Inspector, in fact,” she said.

Jack glowered at the young man and slowly waved from across the table. Scanlan's hubris seemed to evaporate.

“The witnesses made drawings of their attackers. Have you seen them?” she asked, holding up the police artist's sketches. “This one is an excellent likeness of you, I think. So, Horrie, what have you got against cyclists who ride yellow bicycles?”

“Bloody cyclists,” Horrie said, “sneaking 'round at night without making any noise while people are conductin' their private business. Can't hear 'em or see em' neither!”

“And in your case, your 'private business' was burying the body of the man you just murdered, right Horrie?” she asked.

“We all got jobs to do,” Scanlan said.

“And your job was taking care of people who posed a problem for Mr. McEwan, is that right?” she asked.

“That's right,” he replied.

“What did Lawrence Curtis do that made him a problem for Mr. McEwan?” she asked.

“He wouldn't sell our sly grog, and the boss said he had to go,” Horrie replied. Phryne went quiet for a moment, thinking about how ruthless McEwan was, and what could have happened to Sean.

“Mr. McEwan told you to kill Mr. Curtis?” Jack clarified.

“That's right,” he said. “He said he couldn't have barkeeps in Geelong refusin' our stuff if we was movin' into Melbourne.”

“But something went wrong, didn't it, Horrie?” she asked. “A cyclist rode by.”

“He rode past us right when we was dumpin' the body!” Scanlan exclaimed.

“So you had to do something about him, didn't you?” she asked. “But he got away.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“And then you thought you saw him again, right?” she asked.

“It was the same road, same time of night, same color pushbike,” Scanlan said. “It had to be him.”

“But it wasn't,” Jack said. “And then you thought you saw him again near Warrnambool.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“And that wasn't him either,” Jack said.

“This wasn't the first time a cyclist saw you dumping a body, was it Horrie? It happened three years ago.” Phryne said. She placed the photograph of Jimmy Willoughby on the table in front of Scanlan. “This cyclist caught you dumping Thommo Hawkins' body, didn't he?”

“That one weren't us,” Scanlan insisted. “It were McEwan what done that one, not us. We was just there makin' the hole.”

“Did you kill Thommo Hawkins or was it McEwan?” Phryne asked.

“I didn't kill 'the Hatchet'! I liked old Thommo!” Scanlan cried. “McEwan killed him and then he made us help him dump the body.”

 

When they showed him the police artist's sketches and read him the signed statement of his colleague, Horrie Scanlan, Richard Knott knew there was no point in denying his culpability. Knott made his own statement, confessing to the crimes and asserting that McEwan had ordered the murders. He also declared that he witnessed McEwan murder Thommo Hawkins and Jimmy Willoughby. Knott confirmed that McEwan forced he and Scanlan to dump the bodies.

 

Finally the detectives confronted Gordon McEwan. They told him about the signed statements of the men they arrested at the warehouse, which detailed McEwan's illegal activities both in Geelong and Melbourne. They told him about their conversations with Knott and Scanlan, who accused him of murdering two men and ordering the murders of five others. McEwan seemed surprised, but didn't say anything.

After Jack read him the charges, now that he knew he would hang, as they led him out, handcuffed and shackled, Phryne called, “Oh, Mr. McEwan, did you notice my shoes?” She posed for him as if she were one of the Fleuri sisters' models.

“Why would I look at your bloody shoes, bitch?” McEwan muttered.

“Because if you had, you would have known that this bitch is already very well heeled,” she said.

 

*

 

“What made you think Knott and Scanlan could be the murderers?” Jack asked, standing at the parlor mantle for their traditional nightcap.

“You're a trained and experienced police officer, Jack,” Phryne said. “You're used to subduing villains. It would take more than two men and a night as dark as pitch to present a challenge for you. They would have to be experienced fighters themselves. Who would be more experienced than a couple of thugs?”

“But you're forgetting, Phryne, that I had been cycling for more than eight hours,” Jack said.

“No, I'm not,” she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far! It's seems pretty lame to have the murders be committed because someone witnessed something, but it's actually biographical – I had a relative during this era who witnessed something but didn't realize it. He was just a child, but the crims kidnapped him and tried to kill him/thought they had.
> 
> Apologies for the cheesy alliteration – it seemed like something Frederick Burn would do. Yes, I know “copper” is an Americanism, but it was around long enough (1840-50) to travel. I blame Angela Lombard and her Lumberjack whiskey.
> 
> Am I allowed to ask questions? Was the mystery far too obvious? Is there anyone who didn't know the murder would be about dumping a body after I telegraphed it on page one? Was Phryne's line about already being well heeled too far removed from when the crim told Sean to “heel his bitch” to be meaningful? 
> 
> I wasn't sure for how long the Warrnambool cycling race has awarded time medallions until I found an article in the Sept. 16, 1930 Sydney Morning Herald, which said: “The race has proved a magnet to road riders, and thousands have competed in it. In the last 15 races, there have been 3165 competitors, of whom 2219 have won the medallion given for covering the course in less than 10-1/2 hours.” 
> 
> You can see Sir Hubert Opperman's 1924 medal here: http://collections.museumvictoria.com.au/items/414084


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the chapter I meant to post, but I started writing and ended up someplace unexpected. I guess we'll have to see where it goes.

“How did it go with the commissioner?” Phryne asked as Jack walked into his office. She was there to meet him for their scheduled lunch date.

“About as I expected,” he replied, kissing her tenderly.

“No disciplinary action?” she asked, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket.

“No. Upon further consideration, the commissioner decided that we wouldn't have solved the murders if I hadn't competed in the cycling race,” Jack explained. “So by forcing me to ride in the Warrny, Constable Dawson _assisted_ us in solving those murders.”

“What?!” she exclaimed.

“It's true that I might not have met Ronnie Marshall if I hadn't raced the Warrny,” he said, “but I don't know how anyone can characterize Dawson's actions as helpful.”

“That's outrageous!” Phryne cried. “What about Dawson leaving you unprotected when you were attacked during your undercover assignment?”

“The commissioner said the constable misunderstood the assignment,” Jack said. “I can't say that I'm surprised, but I'm worried that the men will become discouraged.”

 

*

 

After lunch Jack drove to Billy Everett's home to return his bicycle. He had spent most of the previous evening cleaning and polishing it. It still bore the small scratches from the two attacks it sustained, but it looked as close to new as possible.

Billy greeted Jack warmly, accepted the bicycle, and showed him into the parlor. Jack congratulated Billy on winning the Blue Riband at the Warrnambool cycling race. Then he thanked Billy for his cooperation during his investigation and specifically for allowing him to protect the cycling champion prior to the race. Billy laughed at the absurdity of Jack thanking him for allowing Jack to keep him safe. Billy liked Jack from the moment they met, and during their time together Billy developed a deep respect for Jack and his dedication to the difficult work he did.

“I'd like to bring you up to date on the Tom Woods and David Horgan murder cases, if you have a moment,” Jack said.

“Of course. Is there news?” Billy asked.

“Yes. The two men who murdered Mr. Woods and Mr. Horgan have been arrested and charged with their crimes,” Jack said with no small amount of pride. “They have since confessed to the murders, as well as to the attempted murder of another cyclist and myself.”

Billy was stunned. “What? How did that happen? When?” he asked. “I just saw you at the race on Saturday and it's only Tuesday!”

“Well, you recall that at the race I told you I had learned why Mr. Woods was killed,” Jack began. “After investigating every possible motive for killing Mr. Woods or Mr. Horgan, Miss Fisher and I determined that, barring a madman killing people at random, the murders had to have been cases of mistaken identity. But we still didn't know who they were mistaken for. On Saturday, while we were lining up for the race, I met the man the murderers had been trying to kill.”

“Who is he? Why were they trying to kill him?” Billy asked.

“He's a cyclist who was training for the Warrny,” Jack said. “They were trying to kill him because they thought he witnessed something.”

“He witnessed something? What did he see?” Billy asked. “Why didn't he come forward?”

“Well, that was part of the problem,” Jack explained. “He didn't actually see anything, or if he did, he didn't realize it. The killers just thought he had.”

“What did they think he saw?” he asked.

“They thought he witnessed them dumping the body of a man they murdered,” Jack replied.

“Good Lord!” Billy exclaimed. “So Tom was killed because they thought he was this other cyclist?”

“Yes. I'm sorry,” Jack said.

“It's hard to imagine what kind of monsters would kill people so readily,” Billy said, “but I'm glad they won't have an opportunity to do it again.”

“I was going to telephone Tom Woods' father to tell him that his son's killers would face justice, but I thought you might want to do that,” Jack said.

“Yes, I would,” Billy said. “Thank you. For everything. I don't know where you find the fortitude to do your job, Jack, but I'm grateful that you do.”

 

*

 

Rumors of the commissioner's decision regarding Constable Dawson spread quickly through the City South Police Station. The news outraged policemen already furious over the attempted murder of their senior detective inspector. The outcome especially worried a certain senior constable. Hugh Collins thought back to before his wedding when he was so desperate for a pay raise that he planned to apply for a position at another station. He remembered how irate he became when the inspector told him that the position was already filled by the nephew of a deputy commissioner. It was far from his first lesson in how things worked in the Victoria Police Force, but it still infuriated him. Hugh received his much-needed pay raise only after the inspector put his own job on the line.

“I need help, Dottie, but I don't know where to turn,” Hugh said. “Someone needs to do something about Dawson, and not just because of what he did to the inspector. He's a danger to all of us. Sooner or later the inspector will have to order Dawson to back up me or one of the other men. One of us could be killed because of Dawson.”

“You may not have been born the nephew of a deputy commissioner, Hugh Collins, but you're not without family,” Dottie said with a look of steely determination.

“I don't think we should ask Miss Fisher for help with this, Dottie,” Hugh said.

“Of course not, Hugh. You know how Miss Fisher feels about the inspector – she might do something regrettable,” Dottie said. “No, we will have to be very strategic about this. We will have to take this straight to the top.”

“You mean?” Hugh asked.

“I'm afraid so, Hugh,” she replied. He gulped.

 

Bert and Cec drove the young couple to the estate of Mrs. Prudence Stanley. He would never admit it, but Bert was glad for the chance to check on “the old bird,” of whom he had grown very fond. Being the aunt of the Honorable Phryne Fisher, Mrs. Prudence Stanley, or “Aunt P” as she was known affectionately, was prepared for and, sadly, experienced in handling even the trickiest situations.

Mrs. Stanley greeted Dottie and Hugh cordially. Having offered them the benefit of her wisdom on previous occasions, she was gratified to see they had the good sense to avail themselves of it again. Mrs. Stanley listened carefully as Dottie and Hugh described recent events at the City South Police Station. “You leave it with me, my dears,” Mrs. Stanley said. “This situation calls for an experienced hand.” Mrs. Stanley strode over to the telephone, picked up the receiver and commanded, “Connect me to the Argus!”

Prudence Stanley loved being helpful. It was more than a matter of _noblesse oblige_. She didn't have to spend her time running from board meeting to charity event to fundraising committee, but helping people gave her life purpose, especially after her husband died. Mrs. Stanley determined many years ago that she could be most effective and therefore most helpful by serving on boards of directors of various charitable groups. Those positions also afforded her the closest thing to power for a woman of her time.

When the newspaper reporter arrived, after first berating him for not knowing the information already, Mrs. Stanley briefed him about the situation at the City South Police Station. She agreed to give the reporter an interview on the condition that he not name Constable Dawson in the article. Mrs. Stanley was interested solely in sending a message to the commissioner and deputy commissioner; there was no need to name the young constable.

Mrs. Stanley began by explaining that she had come to know the fine young men of the City South Police Station through her niece's work solving crimes with Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. She couldn't be blamed for digressing to mention some of the well-known crimes Phryne and Jack had solved together. She reported what she had heard about Constable Dawson's actions and how they nearly cost the inspector his life. “Inspector Robinson is practically family,” she said. “Naturally I'm distressed when someone unnecessarily places his life in jeopardy. But the inspector knows how to take care of himself – he was in the war! My concern is for those young policemen who work for him. They don't have the inspector's vast experience, and they could be in grave danger if the commissioner continues to ignore the dereliction and insubordination of a constable simply because he is related to a deputy commissioner.”

In her own inimitable style of part grandmotherly advice and part imperious browbeating, Mrs. Stanley sympathized with the commissioner's dilemma. She even admitted to having one or two troublesome relatives herself. But she reminded the commissioner that police work was inherently dangerous, and it needn't be made more so by someone's refusal to do his job. “Those dedicated, hardworking men deserve to know that they can trust their fellow policemen to back them up when they face danger,” she said.

“Perhaps what the constable really needs is a new career,” she suggested, “preferably one that's less perilous for those around him.”

 

*

 

“Good morning, Miss,” Mr. Butler greeted as he brought Phryne's breakfast tray into her boudoir. “You may wish to pay special attention to the newspaper this morning.”

“Oh?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss,” Mr. Butler replied, handing her the newspaper folded open to the appropriate page. “It seems Mrs. Stanley has spoken to the Argus about Constable Dawson.”

“WHAT?!” she asked in alarm. “Oh, no!” She gasped as she read the article featuring her aunt. “Has Jack seen the newspaper this morning?”

“I don't believe so, Miss,” he said. “He didn't eat breakfast this morning because he was running late.”

“Could you please package up some food for me to bring him?” she asked. “I've got to run to the station.”

“Certainly, Miss,” he replied.

 

Phryne slipped silently into Jack's office. Jack looked up from his paperwork at the sound of the door closing. “Miss Fisher!” he called. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He quickly crossed the room and welcomed her with a kiss.

“It wasn't me, Jack,” Phryne prefaced.

He chuckled at the familiar words. “What happened? Did Dawson's body turn up in the Yarra?” he teased.

“Jack! Don't even joke about that! Everyone knows who your prime suspect would be,” she pouted.

“Don't worry, Dawson is down the hall serving as my file clerk,” he reassured.

“I didn't know you had a file clerk,” she said.

“I don't, but I refuse to let him endanger my men and I can't trust him to answer the telephone, so that's what he will be for the foreseeable future,” Jack said, “or at least until the commissioner finds out and either sacks me or moves Dawson out of the station.”

“Unfortunately, one of those things may happen sooner than you think,” she said. She handed him the newspaper and said, “Someone spoke to Aunt P about Dawson. But it wasn't me.”

Jack read the headline of the article, “Mrs. Prudence Stanley Worries About City South Policemen.” Without taking his eyes off the paper, he walked back to his desk and sat down. “Oh, God,” he said. Phryne followed him, leaned against his desk, and watched as he continued reading. When his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, she knew which line he was reading. “I'm 'practically family'?” he asked. “It's lucky I'm sitting down.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons unknown to me, I needed to hear my imaginary Aunt P say "hullabaloo." Clearly the years of sleep deprivation have finally caused me to crack.
> 
> The first little bit of a scene is a continuation of the last scene of the previous chapter.

“What are we going to do?” Phryne asked.

“About your aunt's interview? There's nothing we can do,” Jack said. “The commissioner wouldn't believe me if I told him I knew nothing about it.”

They were still imagining the fallout from the newspaper article when the telephone on Jack's desk rang. “Detective Inspector Jack Robinson,” he answered.

“Good morning, Inspector. Prudence Stanley here,” said the voice on the line.

“Good morning, Mrs. Stanley,” Jack said, looking to Phryne. “What can I do for you?” He put the telephone receiver between he and Phryne so she could listen to the conversation.

“I'd like to see you and my niece for supper this evening at eight o'clock,” she said. “We really must discuss the hullabaloo at your police station.”

Jack looked at Phryne, who shook her head to indicate that she didn't wish to accept her aunt's invitation. “Uh, I don't know what Miss Fisher's plans are this evening, Mrs. Stanley,” Jack said, “but you needn't involve yourself any further in police matters.”

“I've spoken with Mr. Butler, and I know Phryne is there with you. Since you two get so caught up in your investigations, I took the liberty of telling Mr. Butler not to prepare the lamb he was planning for your supper tonight,” Mrs. Stanley responded. “Eight o'clock, Inspector. Don't be late.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stanley,” he replied.

*

 

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Collins asked, as he stood nervously in the doorway of his boss' office.

“Come in, Collins, and close the door,” Jack said brusquely. Collins could tell by his stiff posture that Jack was furious with him.

“It was me, sir,” Collins confessed, standing in front of Jack's desk. “I spoke to Mrs. Stanley about Dawson.”

“I know, Collins,” Jack said.

“I'm sorry if I caused problems for you with the commissioner, sir,” Collins said, “but Dawson could get one of us killed and--”

“Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I care about that? Why do you think I used him as _my_ backup rather than endangering one of my men? Why do you think I've been risking my job by refusing to put him back on the street?” Jack asked. He was offended that Collins didn't think he would protect his men from undue risk. He thought Collins knew him better than that.

Collins flinched a little at the restrained anger he heard in his boss' voice, but he stood his ground. “Well, I thought someone should do something about it, sir,” Hugh said.

“That's not your job,” Jack growled in a deep, dangerous-sounding tone.

“But it is my concern, sir,” Hugh said firmly.

“Have I neglected to train you, Collins?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” Collins replied.

Have I failed to properly arm or equip you?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” Collins replied.

“Have I ever sent you into a situation unprepared?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” Collins replied.

“Have I failed to advocate for you with senior officials?” Jack asked.

“No, sir,” Collins replied.

“Then what made you think I would let you down now?” Jack asked.

Collins didn't have an answer.

“I could have kept Dawson in that filing room for years without the commissioner objecting, but now that you've turned this into a public debate, I will have to find another solution,” Jack said.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Collins said. “Sir?”

“Yes, Collins,” Jack sighed.

“The commissioner won't fire you over this, will he, sir?” Collins asked.

“That's not your concern,” Jack replied curtly. “You'll be working the night shift for the next month, Collins.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said. “Thank you, sir. For not firing me, sir.”

“That'll be all, Collins,” Jack said. “And the next time you're concerned about something, Collins, talk to _me_ , not Mrs. Stanley,” Jack advised. “I may not have her way with the press, but I have a lot more experience at maneuvering within this police force.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins said.

 

*

 

Chief Commissioner Calder was not a stupid man, but after reading Mrs. Prudence Stanley's interview in the Argus, he wondered if he had made a mistake about Constable Dawson. And about Jack. Calder was familiar with the reputation of Mrs. Stanley, and if Jack has her support, then he had misjudged the inspector. Calder had worked in the northern part of Melbourne before being appointed commissioner, so he didn't know Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, except by reputation. Naturally he knew that Jack was the reason for the vacancy in the commissioner's office – there wasn't a person in Melbourne who didn't know about the Sanderson and Fletcher arrests. He knew of Jack's outstanding record for solving murders, but he also knew about his independent thinking, indifference to career advancement, and unorthodox methods, such as working with Miss Fisher whom senior officials derided as a floozie.

In an organization the size of the Victoria Police Force, a commissioner relies on his deputy commissioners for information and advice. But the commissioner was beginning to wonder if he had allowed the deputy commissioners to negatively color his opinion of Jack. Calder hadn't considered the backlash of anger among the senior ranks for Jack arresting a sitting commissioner. In his interactions with the inspector, the commissioner had always found Jack to be intelligent, respectful, and dutiful, but the deputy commissioners had at various times implied that Jack was trouble and that he didn't like to follow orders. If racing a bicycle 165 miles while injured didn't indicate a dedication to duty and willingness to follow orders, Calder thought, then he'd like to know what did.

The commissioner quietly undertook his own investigation. He ordered copies of all Jack's case reports for the past two years – not the summarized reports he received from the deputy commissioners, but the reports Jack submitted. Then he requested the performance reports submitted by all the inspectors who supervised Dawson during his short career as constable. Calder decided that he would reevaluate his decision about Dawson only after he had read all the relevant, unfiltered material. He wasn't going to go up against Mrs. Prudence Stanley without knowing the facts.

 

*

 

Phryne and Jack arrived promptly at 8:00 p.m., and were shown into the small parlor where a table had been set for supper. It was a far more intimate setting than the enormous formal dining room. Mrs. Stanley joined them promptly and ordered the food to be served and the doors closed so they could dine undisturbed.

“I apologize, Inspector, for my intrusion into your police business,” Mrs. Stanley said.

Mrs. Stanley's apology caught Jack by surprise. That wasn't at all what he was expecting. “No apology is necessary, Mrs. Stanley,” Jack said. “I'm sure you meant well. And please call me 'Jack.'”

“Thank you, Jack. Indeed I did, but I may have acted hastily – Constable Collins said you were nearly killed as a result of Dawson's misconduct,” Mrs. Stanley explained. “I have some experience handling this type of situation, and I hoped my influence might prove useful.”

“You have experience with this kind of situation, Aunt P?” Phryne asked.

“My charity work may be a cause for derision by you, Phryne, but the boards of directors on which I serve run hospitals, feed people who wouldn't otherwise eat, train people for employment, and oversee the education and welfare of children,” Mrs. Stanley said.

“I know you do good works, Aunt P,” Phryne said.

“Over the course of my life, my charitable activities have raised enough money to run a small country,” Mrs. Stanley boasted. “But my responsibilities involve more than raising money. As a board member, I have stared down efforts to terminate employment based solely on innuendo, I have thwarted the implementation of unfair policies, and I have stymied political machinations so convoluted they would make a prime minister weep. That is to say that, while I may have acted in haste, Jack, I did not act out of ignorance.”

“Of course not,” Jack said.

“I'm not perfect, of course,” Mrs. Stanley continued. “I regret having fired Dr. MacMillan last year, but that was as much your fault as it was mine, Jack. If you hadn't arrested her, I wouldn't have had to fire her. And the error was quickly rectified.”

“Of course,” he agreed.

“In every organization, there are those who are not up to the job and those who protect them, often at the expense of others,” Mrs. Stanley said. “Sometimes to resolve these circumstances all that's necessary is to remind the protector that the aggrieved party has people who care about him, too. That was my purpose in contacting the Argus. If the commissioner wishes to continue protecting Dawson at your expense, then I thought it would behoove him to know that I have an interest in _your_ welfare. But I do hope that my interview has not caused you any discomfort, Jack.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stanley,” he replied. “I haven't heard the commissioner's reaction to your interview yet, but I'm confident it will be forthcoming.”

“Why did you tell the Argus that Jack was 'practically family,' Aunt P?” Phryne asked.

“To show my support, of course,” Mrs. Stanley said. “Don't try to deny that you two are involved romantically, Phryne. You cannot allow yourself to be photographed in public with your hands on the man's posterior and not expect people to know what you get up to in private.”

“I didn't _allow_ anything, Aunt P,” Phryne said. “That Frederick Burn is a sneak!”

“It didn't occur to you that, in a crowd of 25,000 people, someone might notice what you were up to?” Mrs. Stanley retorted.

Phryne rolled her eyes, but she knew her aunt was right. She will have to be more careful when she is with Jack in public, lest she cause irreparable damage to his career. “You know perfectly well, Aunt P, that when you say that Jack is 'practically family,' people will interpret that to mean that Jack and I are engaged to be married,” Phryne said.

“Of course I know,” Mrs. Stanley said. “And if you know what's good for you, my dear, you will do nothing to confirm or deny their suspicions. Society makes allowances for unacceptable behavior when it believes the offending couple to be betrothed, although such accommodations are usually only necessary when the sweethearts are still in their youth.” She cast a withering look at Phryne and Jack.

“You know how I feel about marriage, Aunt P,” Phryne said.

“Of course I know your feelings about marriage, Phryne. And I doubt there is a male of the species who is unaware of your views on the subject,” Mrs. Stanley said with a long-suffering look to her niece. “But the Inspector is not one of your flirtations, dear girl. Inspector Robinson is the only man you've shown a genuine interest in since you came to Melbourne. He is a good man whose reputation shouldn't be tarnished by your carelessness.”

“You're right, Aunt P,” Phryne said contritely. “I'll be more discreet in the future.”

“You two can't even keep your hands to yourselves now,” Mrs. Stanley said. Phryne and Jack quickly released the hands they were holding under the table. “I'm not suggesting that you get married, Phryne. I'm merely proposing a solution that would allow you to continue living as you are without placing the Inspector's career in jeopardy.”

“People expect a wedding to follow an engagement,” Jack said warily.

“Not necessarily, Jack,” Mrs. Stanley replied. “Couples can be engaged for years before they wed. As far as the public is concerned, you could be waiting for Phryne's parents to find a convenient time to travel down for the wedding.”

“Hold on,” Phryne said. “This is Jack we're talking about. The policeman. A man with no title and no fortune.”

“Have your detective powers failed you where I'm concerned, my dear?” Mrs. Stanley asked. “Have you not noticed that I stopped introducing you to eligible men more than a year ago?”

“I thought you were just changing tactics,” Phryne said.

“No, my dear,” Mrs. Stanley said. “After seeing the way you two looked at each other, I knew that if you ever admitted to each other what everyone around you could see, there would be no point in trying to match you with anyone else.”

“Oh,” Phryne said.

“Besides, it's not as if you're going to _marry_ him,” Mrs. Stanley said.

 

“She always did like you better,” Phryne pouted as they drove back to Wardlow. Jack tried not to laugh – Phryne knew that Prudence Stanley was completely devoted to her. “The next thing you know she'll be making you biscuits,” she said.

“Mmm,” Jack said, wondering if Mrs. Stanley's biscuits would be as good as Mr. Butler's. Phryne slapped him on the arm and continued driving while Jack laughed quietly to himself.

 

In the middle of the night, the two detectives lay awake in bed. “I can hear you thinking, love, what is it?” Jack asked, running his fingers though her silky black hair.

She lifted her head from his chest and looked at him in the moonlight. “I've been mulling over Aunt P's suggestion of a never-ending engagement,” she said. “It's really quite ingenious. I'm almost jealous that I didn't think of it myself.”

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I think we should give it a try. I think we should let people misunderstand Aunt P's comment,” she said.

“And if they ask us directly?” he asked.

“Then 'we're not comfortable discussing private matters,'” she said.

“Are you sure about this, Phryne? I don't want to do anything to jeopardize what we have between us,” he said.

“I think this could work, darling,” Phryne said. “It would remove some of the pressure from you at work, and it would let you stay here with me without having to sneak around.”

“Are you sure? Is this what you want, me here with you?” he asked.

“More than anything,” she said.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to bill0014, Sarahtoo, Bijoux53 and others who hung in there with me until the end. I'm grateful for your encouragement and support.

“Good morning, Miss, Sir,” Mr. Butler greeted, as he carried the morning coffee and tea into the boudoir. He handed Phryne the newspaper and said, “This article may be of particular interest.”

Jack sighed. “Which one of your friends or relatives has spoken to the press today?” he asked, sitting up to drink his coffee.

“None of mine, darling, it's one of yours,” she said.

“Not quite accurate, Miss,” Mr. Butler whispered to Phryne. “Page seven.”

Phryne flipped to page seven and scanned the title: “'We're Thrilled!' Says Baron of Richmond.” She quickly closed the newspaper and returned to the item Mr. Butler had shown her.

“Billy Everett wrote an article about the Warrnambool cycling race,” Phryne said, skimming the story. “He talks about how he prepared for the race and what led to his fourth title as Australian Long Distance Cycling Road Champion,” she said. “At the end of the piece he says, 'Finally, there are two very special people without whom I would not have won this race. The first is my training partner, Tom Woods of Adelaide, a good man, outstanding cyclist, and future champion, who was tragically murdered while training for the race. The second is my other training partner, Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victoria Police Force, who courageously became my training partner after Tom's death, setting himself up as the killers' target, fighting off an attempt on his life, and bringing Tom's murderers to justice – all while riding a bicycle! I'll ride with you anytime, Jack.'”

Jack was speechless.

 

After breakfast, Jack was leaving for the station when Phryne said, “Jack, love, some newspaper reporters may want to follow up on Aunt P's comment about you being 'practically family,' so you may receive a little more attention than usual from the press over the next few days. Don't comment, and they will soon move on to the next story.”

“Have you given this enough thought, Phryne? Are you sure you want to let people think we're engaged to be married?” he asked. “I'm happy to leave things as they are.”

“I'm positive,” she replied. “I love you, Jack Robinson, and I think it would be nice not to have to hide that. What about you? Are you having doubts about being with me?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I love you. Being with you is the one thing in this world of which I am certain.”

“Well then, Jack Robinson, will you become engaged to me in perpetuity or for as long as we both agree?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he teased. “Is Mr. Butler's cooking part of the bargain? And lots of biscuits?”

She laughed. “It is, although I will have to check with him – a bonus may be required,” she said. “And I promise you all the biscuits you can eat.”

“A man could hardly refuse such a generous offer,” he contemplated.

“One would be a fool not to accept,” she advised helpfully.

“And I'm no fool,” he said, smiling. “I, Jack Robinson, do hereby become betrothed to you, the lovely Phryne Fisher, until the end of time or for as long as we both agree.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her slowly, thoroughly, passionately.

After Jack left, Phryne walked into the kitchen. “You're not planning to leave my employ any time soon, are you Mister B?” she asked. “It turns out that your cooking was the deciding factor in our engagement!”

Mr. Butler smiled and said, “No, Miss, I have no plans. And please allow me to offer my most sincere congratulations!”

“Thank you, Mr. B!” she said.

As she climbed the stairs to prepare for her day, Phryne reflected on her conversation with Jack. She knew Jack was worried that their constancy would frighten or overwhelm her. In truth, she thought she would have felt at least a little claustrophobic at their closeness, but she hadn't. Everything felt natural with Jack. She knew they loved each other before they ever stepped out together, and once they admitted their feelings for each other, the couple slipped into an easy existence of mutual love and respect. They disagreed about some things and even argued over others, but they never wavered in their trust in and love for each other.

Phryne laughed at herself for being nervous about entering into a relationship with Jack. She had been unwilling to risk losing him as a friend and work partner. Moreover, she had worried that being in a committed relationship with someone would change her. Jack said he would never ask her to change who she was, and he hadn't. But being in a committed relationship with him had changed her. Of course it had. So how had she changed? She was still Phryne Fisher. She still dressed impeccably, chased criminals, and danced to her heart's content. She wasn't in any way diminished by the relationship – after Rene she knew better than to allow that. She wasn't any less free. She wasn't any less fierce. She wasn't any less of a crusader for women and justice. She hadn't compromised any of the values she held dear. The only difference she could identify was that she was happy. Gloriously, unequivocally, completely, profoundly happy.

 

*

 

As Jack approached the station, he saw a mob of reporters waiting out front. He drove around to the rear of the building and entered the station through the back door. “What do those reporters want, Abbot?” Jack asked, as he walked toward his office.

“They want to know about your engagement to Miss Fisher, sir,” Abbot replied.

“Well, you can tell them and anyone else who asks that I will not comment on personal matters,” Jack said. He hoped Phryne was right that the press would soon lose interest in their private affairs.

 

Meanwhile on Russell Street the commissioner was encountering his own mob of sorts. Ever since Mrs. Stanley's interview was published, the commissioner's office had been inundated with telephone calls from members of various ladies auxiliaries, charity boards, and fundraising committees worrying about 'those poor young men of the City South Police Station.' Mrs. Stanley hadn't asked anyone to contact the commissioner, of course, but when ladies of her society saw that Mrs. Prudence Stanley was disturbed about the young policemen, naturally they felt they should be upset, too.

Despite the interruptions, Commissioner Calder made significant progress reviewing the recent work histories of Senior Detective Inspector Robinson and Constable Dawson. The commissioner was shocked by what he found. Constable Dawson was not the innocent victim of jealousy as he had been portrayed, but rather an insolent young man who apparently felt that, because of his connection to a deputy commissioner, he didn't have to perform the duties he was assigned. In fact, when the commissioner called Dawson's former supervisors for further information, he learned that they had refrained from firing the young man only out of fear of reprisals from the deputy commissioner.

In the case of Inspector Robinson, the commissioner learned that the deputy commissioner to whom Jack reported following Sanderson's promotion (and subsequent arrest) had consistently minimized Jack's accomplishments or downplayed his role in their success. For instance, when Jack and Phryne raided McEwan's warehouse after Jack found property in Melbourne listed under one of McEwan's known aliases, the deputy commissioner reported that the raid was the result of a routine check of the property that the he himself had ordered.

The commissioner didn't get through all of Jack's reports, but he read enough to know that he had made a grave error. He called an emergency meeting of his deputy commissioners, introduced new rules to ensure that the information he received from them was accurate, and realigned which officers would report to which deputy commissioners. Furthermore, to ensure that Jack would not be victimized again, the commissioner ordered that he receive copies of everything Jack sent to his new deputy commissioner.

 

*

 

Jack returned from a visit to the pie cart to find the commissioner waiting in his office. “Commissioner!” Jack said, surprised. “I wasn't aware you wanted to see me, sir.”

“I thought we should talk someplace away from Russell Street,” Chief Commissioner Calder explained. “Let's go for a walk – the gossip in this station is just as bad as at Russell Street.”

The commissioner and the inspector left the station and walked down the street. “I know you didn't speak to Mrs. Stanley about the situation at City South,” Calder began.

“How?” Jack asked.

“That's not how you conduct yourself,” the commissioner replied. “I suspected who it was, so I checked your station's duty roster for the next month and noticed that Collins was transferred to the night shift.”

“Sir, he didn't–” Jack began.

“I know, Robinson,” Calder interrupted. “Collins is a good man. He was worried about you and he should have been. I made a mistake about Dawson. I was given bad information and I believed it. I allowed Dawson's uncle to sway my decision simply because he was a deputy commissioner. That won't happen again.”

The commissioner told Jack about the review he had undertaken. He shared what he had learned and reported what measures he had initiated to prevent the problems in future. He apologized to Jack.

“So what are we going to do about Dawson?” the commissioner asked.

“We, sir?” Jack asked.

“Yes, I thought you might have an opinion about what we should do with him,” the commissioner said.

“I suppose if it were my decision, sir, I would want to know that Dawson really wants to be a member of this police force,” Jack said.

“And how would we do that, do you suppose?” the commissioner asked.

“Send him back through the Academy, not as a deputy commissioner's nephew, but under an assumed name, and make him earn his place on the force,” Jack said. “Tell him that if a single person, either student or faculty, learns that he is a deputy commissioner's nephew, he will be thrown out.”

The commissioner thought for a moment, then said, “I like it. I'll inform Dawson by the end of the day that this will be his last chance to remain a member of this police force. And don't worry, he will be suspended from duty until he reports to the Academy. Where is he, by the way?”

“In my file room,” Jack replied.

The commissioner laughed and thanked Jack for his help. “Oh, and Robinson, let Collins work nights for a couple of weeks, but then find some excuse to bring him back,” the commissioner added.

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied.

 

*

 

When Jack returned to Wardlow that evening, he found Phryne in the parlor enjoying a preprandial cocktail. She poured him a drink while he hung up his hat and coat. Jack crossed the room, folded her in his arms and kissed her as if it had been months, not hours, since he last saw her.

They settled into the chaise lounge, and Jack inquired about her day. Phryne described the new case she had accepted that afternoon and relayed Aunt P's invitation to an upcoming charity ball. Jack recounted his meeting with the commissioner and confessed to feeling cautiously optimistic about his future on the force.

“Sean called by the station this afternoon,” Jack reported. “He'd read Mrs. Stanley's interview and wanted to know if it was true that we're engaged.”

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

“Well, naturally I scolded him for doubting the veracity of the press,” he said. “Then I told him we would provide all the details at dinner tomorrow night.”

“And was he satisfied with that?” she asked.

“Not quite. He asked me how I summoned the courage to ask you to marry me. I told him I didn't. I said that, as usual, you propositioned me,” he said with a smirk.

“'Proposed,'” Phryne corrected. “I believe the term is 'proposed.' And did you tell him that you wouldn't accept until I offered an endless supply of biscuits?”

“I may have forgotten to mention any inducements that were offered – a man has his pride” he said.

“And where was that pride, I wonder, when you asked if Mr. Butler's cooking came with the deal?” she quipped.

“A man also has his appetites,” he said.

She laughed. “Jack Robinson, what will I do with you?” she asked.

“As it happens, I have some ideas about that,” he said. He kissed her deeply, passionately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to recap, there was no "death at the Warrny," but death "leading up to," "near," or "possibly related to" the Warrny didn't have the same ring, and I was too lazy to come up with a better title. I could have called it "Death on a Wheel," "Death on a Bicycle," or "Death on a Yellow Bicycle," but I wanted "Warrny" in the title because 1) I like the nickname, 2) it's an important race, and 3) Warrnambool is a distinctly Australian name (I think).  
> I hope you enjoyed the story. Thank you for taking the time to read it.


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